I Wrote a Song About Foxes and Hens But I'm Not Going To Tell You About That

I knew a student at Art College, who gave themselves suspected food poisoning after a meal of organic mince made into bolognaise sauce. The next week, they came down with the sickness again. What had happened? They had put the remainder of the bolognaise sauce into the freezer and eaten it again the next week!

I knew a child whose Grandfather died and who took to the piano like a demon, playing at breakfast time, teatime and night-time, making sadness into beautiful and dynamic music all day long.

Meanwhile, the cat has lost its collar and looks oddly naked in spite of its fur

I have too may ideas written on bits of paper and I'm trying to throw the paper away and keep the ideas. Could I store them in the air? Only if I make them into songs!
I was talking to a student yesterday about MP3s and how they have almost made music into air again, which is what it was in the first place: vibrations donging against our ear drums. As soon as recording started, so did the selling of music because it became a product with accessories galore, all of which became more and more necessary until poor music topped under the weight of its essential add-ons. And home recording? Well, didn't people used to have a piano in their living rooms to make music on? It's the same thing, only just the twenty-first century version.
Hickety pickety hoo.