THE MACROSCOPIC TEAPOT
I live on the roof of the hotel. I don’t have many provisions and the nights are very cold. I’ll never come to Birmingham again, if I’m ever allowed to leave. They lie when they say perpetual motion is impossible. I’ve seen it in action here: the sheets of rain are endless, swishing constantly from one horizon to another. I still have my bass guitar, a 1964 Rickenbacker, and I thumb the occasional riff to keep in practice. It’s not connected to an amplifier and sounds rather thin as a result, but I would rather endure that than be electrocuted. Voltage and water don’t care for each other’s company. I won’t play a note near moisture when I’m plugged in. I still remember our keyboards player, frazzled in a swimming pool in Barcelona.
It was his own fault and my sympa
