Daniel Kitson: Thrum

There’s the sound of somewhere else and the permanence of a plant pot and the ubiquity of a phrase and the heartbreaking brevity of a very long time. There’s figs and worms and an old dog rejecting a blanket. There’s a woman, on a train, wearing a badge. There’s the first beep of a smoke alarm and there’s a daffodil in December and there’s the condition of fruit. There’s a hand in bed and there’s stuff on the stairs and there’s a mark on my jumper and there’s a massive tree in storage on a farm in Kent. There’s nothing to say and there’s the thought of rotting and there’s the name of a feeling and there’s the smell of tobacco. There’s the twelfth floor of a hotel and the far end of a platform at Tamworth train station. There’s a duty to act and there’s a resistance to growth and there’s a new place up the road and there’s a completely redundant volume control. There’s a toilet in Hong Kong and a coffee shop in Melbourne and the passage of light through a building and deliberately making things much more difficult than they actually need to be. 

And. 

There’s music, more or less throughout, at least two funny voices and upwards of three jokes.