There’s a box I talk into and it records my dreaming in and it records my dreaming out as I croak on the bed in my room, which I could say’s a cave, or which I could say is like a spaceship, no, I dunno, as I sit in what was a damp loft of a house of maybe a cotton mill owner and now where I’ll nod to H and he’ll say: We’ll hear a play tomorrow. Yes H.

A box that records voice