Number nine. She sits seated at a piano, playing for the slums in suits. It wasn't tuesday. Flash. Taking backwards tape loops and issuing them silent names. Verdi. The band enters the medley as she takes a sip of it and an indian enters the bar with a man who looks like a child. They get a little bit older and a little bit slower. The announcer announces. She continues her playage. A violinist comes close to her and dances backwrds. The indian catches her attention with a tambourine embroidered necklace. Where are they going with this. A woman laughs at her. Number nine. She cries with pain like a baby. Number nine. This can't be happening to her. Her vision blurs as the finale comes to a crashing hult. The trumpet and people in the distance. Cars are suddenly rushing by. She can't breath. She remebers her pass. "Ride!" yells a man in a purple suit. A baby cries. Number nine. Everyone is talking to her at the same time. The announcer continues to speak. A car drives by. Are they playing old toons. Her head aches like channel surfing. I hear Jon Lenon. A microphone and seagals. But it's just the tape loops. Shh. A man from a distance. The announcer sounds different. The telegraphs. Someone is afraid. Number nine. Flutes? Turtles. Is it the BBC? Who are all those people? Are they chearing for her. Her song slowly fades a way. Number nine. She drinks. He sounds as if in agoney. He's deeper. The indian man. Everything is loud and moves too fast. They clap. They whistle. They are appluading her song. Someone is chasing her, but she is not running. Not knowing she isn't there. The sirene sounds. It's long and boring. Who's laughing. There is a fight far away. Silence. Did the police catch him. She is still cconscious. Who broke it, she hears the crackling. What's wrong with him. Why is he saying that. A robot. She is afraid. Bombs, explosions, shooting. So many years. The opera sounds. Agnus dei. Shh. Number nine. Relapse. Find Balance. The Watusee. The twist. El cerado. "Take this brother may it serve you well. Is that my guitar slowly weeps. Distant screaming. It's not fair. Whistling. I'm scared. What does he want from her. It's the moaning. He's moaning to my voice. He's moaning. Operah and dripping water.. The piano. She must play the piano. If you become naked. The people are there. They are chanting.. "All night Long". She doesn't know what thyey're saying. But the Pan is cool.
