Sitting in the only chair in the room the guitarist began to sing. She sang the carpet into furrows of clay and the light-bulb into a paled sun. She sang twelve jolly dons into the already crowded bedsit. Through the floor erupted stick tied men, the taint of mildewed coats filling the room. Around the window shabby crows cluttered up the curtain rail. On a Monday outside time she sang beauty between those four walls that lingered long after everyone left.
When the day passed to night I passed the night sleeping alone in a single bed, under a window too easily opened from the outside. Next morning I got up in my one pair of jeans, with my reduced money for the week, and I carried inside my chest one crow feather, a mildewed thread, and a clod of ploughed clay.