Gogo will sit on her plastic matt,the sound of friction as her worn out marrows rub.She folds her bipedal limbs…
Her wrinkled slender fingers will beat at the chords,in a slow slow hypnotic tune,her blood will pulsate at the very vivid connection with the rhythm…
Drawing a breeze,her diaphragm will heave..as if the molecules of her oxygen were bonded with musical notes…
The Acoustic.
Africa Zwelibanzi 