I go to bed angry. Wake up angry. My heart beats in a rhythm of
staccato (Italian for detached). Lisztomania was coined in 1844 due to the Liszt phenomenon. Because Liszt was such a FAN of
staccato and it made the women hysterical and it is not anyone's business how this mania is incorporated, postulated, and produced throughout my body. Oh, the hysteria! As of late, I spit up staccato notes, which are regular notes with the dot above which causes no small amount of pain on the way up. The
staccato that is my own memento mori, the Latin following the Italian. I would just as soon mix metaphors as I would mix languages. (Refers to "The Homewrecker's Guide to Holidays" before continuing post). Makes no sense to sit around contemplating your own end while the clock ticks while your heart races in
staccato. You will never wake up, that is, if you ever go to sleep. (You are detached)
If you listen to your heart long enough, there on your pillow, on your bleached pillowcase, with the White Noise App playing the sound of "Rain" as loud as it will go, and if you think about the word
staccato which is your heart, of course, as mentioned, it will all sound like nonsense. Your own hysteria. Stops making sense.
Italian for detached.
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| Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison - Flying Lesson |
*Notes with staccato dots and also covered by a slur are intended to be less staccato than normal, i.e. more note and less rest.
My own hysteria. I stop making sense. The staccato.
