It is 01:40. Accordion music is finally playing on tv. We might now be anti hormone war activists and negation of negation of
post-post nokia, or something like that. The situation is getting out of
control. Our emblem is taking on forms - charged by an ear-ripping thunderbolt strike next to the building. Sauna is becoming gilded, hot, and stocked with baby water. Horse art keeps sprouting. We have at least three acts booked for the funeral party, but we do not know if they will actually do something. The moon is full. The end is nigh.
It is 03:30. Eighties Estonian synthpop is playing on the PA. Tomi is luxuriously sleeping on a brown velvet armchair. Baby water is still flowing. Our fish fell to the floor. I wonder if the original fish is safe? Nobody is answering the phone in our studio. All the booze has drained into The Pit. And it is repeating. We are the last people at a noise gig. The museum will be gone tomorrow, as will Antti. We worked on Sunday. We did not even go into the fish worshipping church. We will all go to Hell. But The Pit will persist.
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