The time disappeared in music. The night wavered like an old video tape. Was it the wind or my imagination? I remembered the hills in fog and rain. The silence of uncertainty. The kisses I didn’t like. It was strange how I did not smoke the cigarette I had in my hand. I looked at it like I were in love. I have to write a paper.
There is nothing to write about the literary experience, the subjectivity of it and the reception theory. It’s the music, not the words. Not the words? You don’t need marijuana for poetry. It’s for music.
My Trial is different from your Trial. We already knew this.