Strokes and noise

Percussion is always a homecoming when I lose myself in the twists and turns of psychotic residuals that interfere with my synaptic circuits.
Each time, struggling to neutralise them. No peace for the ones who have poisoned themselves to the point of collapse, except in moments of grace and oblivion of the load and discharges.
Playing is a tender act when the world of the abled is so harsh. Feeling at home nowhere and searching a stronghold elsewhere, being no longer anyone and able to talk to anybody naturally, when distance from my fief soothes my raw nerves, the absence of any stakes, touching a little lightness and liberation with a finger.
When being different in a regular shape causes discomfort, misunderstanding, I start the counter and watch the land pass by to seek truth and my original self in unknown places, great outdoors or narrow streets to walk on. Always alone, but finally constantly with everyone.