Watching a 40-something year old man chew on glass to make music.
I wonder what he does in his real life.
Does he have a job?
A family?
I imagine his wife.
Cleaning up the glass he smashes.
And spits out.
Maybe his kids tell their friends about him.
But they don't believe it.
He smashes a sheet of glass over his head.
Everybody claps.
The people around me all look the same.
I look the same.
I wonder why they didn't stamp hands when we paid.
How can they tell us apart?
There's a guy wearing the same clothes as me.
Once I showed up at a friends place to go to a gig.
And we were wearing the exact same clothes.
A red-checkered shirt.
Tight-ish black jeans.
Black volleys.
(This seems to be the sum of my outfits now.
[insert colour]-checkered shirt, those jeans and shoes.)
We both had a good laugh.
And then played Mario Golf.
But he got changed before we left.
To my protests.
I think I would be considered a hipster.
If I had friends.
Who were hipsters.
Or even.
If I just had friends.
I realised that I stopped drinking cider.
Because it became popular.
We're sitting on the floor.
It's concrete.
And my coccyx hurts.
We walked for an hour and a half to get here.
And we'll have to walk for an hour and a half.
To get back.
I'm too worried about leaving my bike outside.
In areas like this.
It was BYO.
But I wasn't informed of this.
Someone is smoking inside.
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