Wilco
Poor Places

For me, Poor Places is autumn sunset yellow, yellow of dead leaves, Poor Places is warm yellow. It begins like a mist of radio signal and clears up into distortions and ticking, then puff, it cleans up and dons a new pristine attire, and finally returns to the debris rain of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

I had never seen a jellyfish live, especially on the shore, semi-dried and lifeless, or perhaps I could have thrown it back into the sea, but it impressed me, it was the size of a melon. Rocks as far as the eye can see. A part of me will remain lost there forever, like the jellyfish, pierced by a reflex camera.

What will follow are clover-shaped pancakes covered with chocolate glaze and French toast with cinnamon, I call it low-grade corruption.

Or maybe it was class struggle, I remember the poverty of the places, faded public housing, then houses where moldy spirits lingered, not even money for hot water, the smell of cat urine.

Photographs of memories that this wonderful song brings back to my mind in sequence. When it's hot in poverty, you don't want to go out, you would want to remain in that humid heat forever.

Sentences on the wall written crookedly with floral patterns around them. It made no difference to me who had entered that cold and miserable bed before. I had a broken jaw and a heart already put in the freezer.

It makes no difference to me, I never spoke of serious things, never opened my mouth on matters beyond the trivial, like what surrounded me. Perhaps that was the strength or perhaps the weakness, it makes no difference, I know it will be hot in miserable places tonight as well, there are those who will not go out for a while.