Hello, I am Arno Bucker.

Now, here's a scene for you.

There's a table near the street.

In an old, familiar place, the Italian restaurant, him and me, face to face, and the phone.

And Refresco and the crew, Christlanded in Groningen, the Netherlands.

After a week European tour, I happened to live there.

I chose the restaurant.

I get to see them again. Tired eyes.

Stare back from across the table. Puzzled gazes try to find out where the fuck they are,

or how they even got there. A bottle of red. Another bottle of red. No rosé, sir. Maybe a beer.

They have been sleeping all day.

They came in last night, party crest, the government mule concert,

went on to the Irish pub, from there to the karaoke club,

and I don't know how they keep going.

Live on stage resembles live offstage.

They are machines.

I don't know what their oil is.

A bottle of red, a snuffle of white, all depends upon their appetite.

But now they are fucked. glued to their phones like flies to a light bulb. Disappearing into the light.

At least, Frasco is. There's fishy spaghetti, meaty pasta and ravioli Napolitana, grabby fingers, empty the plates, conversation sparks up.

Things are okay with me these days.

You lost weight.

...