            — I have three stones and if I don’t smash the clock face, I smash his own.
            But then the man say, I want to sing for you. And I know I not to answer no madman, but something in his voice sound kinda different, like him come from somewhere, not from foreign, but from somewhere don’t have no name; so I say, What? And him say, I going to sing for you and when I sing, you going to see your face.
            His locs tie up in a red scarf and he have two brass ears-ring that go ting-&-ting.
And him stand up straight and sing with a voice sound like it come out an ole-time radio, all scratch-up and far away. And I forget all about the clock and three stones in my hand, the man voice so — I don’t know how to say it! His voice so dream-and-ting, like I in a soft-breeze place full of fireflies — no, like my grandmoddah standing up in church in the spirit with her arms spread out, only is not church song the man singing — no, is Rasta song him singing, Rasta spirit tings, Rasta firefly, spirit tings. And I find myself start move to the bass, and his ears-rings shape-like-Africa justa move with me. And is the first time anybody sing me a song; nobody never sing for me-one.