First the quarter notes began looking like leeches; then the half notes began looking like sperm. It was official: Audrey Hepburn had drove me mad. Every time a film of hers came out, she fucked the score’s composer. Our ‘Roman Holiday’ didn’t take place in Rome, but in my apartment in Paris. Our affair, if you will let me call it that, lasted only four days. She etched her fingernails into my back forever.

Can I tell you about the f-hole? It’s a little f-shaped hole on a cello or violin. It’s made for sound coming out. Then there’s Audrey’s f-hole, which is more v-shaped, and made for stuff going in. Now imagine atonal leeches sucking onto every memory of Audrey’s f-hole.

Beethoven had the minor key; I had the minor role, in her life. I was to actually die thirty years later, after our affair, though I consider my subsequent years after Audrey a more notable, spiritual, death. I walked the Marais district at night, sucking down crepes like some fat woman. My meaninglessness was not mere existential aestheticism. Sartre had a thesis, I utterly and truly had nothing (expect my face wasn’t fucked up looking like his).

If life is consciousness, and consciousness is the mind, and the mind is a room, and a room is four walls, then I consider the four walls of my coffin a gentle reminder that I lived inside the world of f-holes when I was young once. When the world was younger.

Who needs all this 1984 Orwellian shit when you can croak a year earlier? Coldplay can suck it…and it was all cello.

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