The room held its own kind of franchise – namely unofficial pepperings of alarming chaos. Upside over and decidedly under-beneath the form of the female non-conformist, she seems to see many a momentous event – this salt-haired, typewritten wannabe. Electric by chosen nature and ready to write all of the keynote catchphrases near the absailing skyline. Her hollow-acoustic eyes have been missing in action – having taken themselves generously away on beneficially significant leave again. And to a jarring place wherein they shall have to steadfastly bear with the unnerving levels of whipping noise, please; for the constant de-cluttering of both disobedient and utterly under-entitled words cannot ever hold its lucid tongue for long enough. And finally… then and only there, do all of these methodically organised activities start to manage to make cordial sense again. Ever since the very same reason she gave the alcohol addiction the coldest shoulder going. Now disorderly standing in line – one aside no other – as just these plain, sober, blurred words jovially given over – via the very same fingers which feed her.