Unlikely, I don’t document open air. I don’t take the time to tend to the sediments of the blue man. There’s little interest in riff-raff. You know that guy from back to the future, the one that flies into piles of shit. I’m a running gag man, I’m a national flag. I’m a country somewhere you never cared for. Writing without rhymes is difficult, it’s complex. It’s three-tone, and I’m two, it topples me into something new. I’m colour blind and all the stop signs are blue, don’t even get me started on that greenish yellow. I’m deaf but sign language doesn’t seem so good. I don’t want to people to think I’m an asshole when they look at me from far away, if I talked with my hands. People would think I’m an asshole.