This is an old-fashioned walking poem, by which I mean to say, it used old technology, and was caught incomplete.
I remember the writing. It was at the end of a day recording a Community of Communities event at SOAS. Those days began at about 4 or 4:30 a.m., to catch the early train to London, and ended with driving back up to the house from the station sometime after 10:00 at night.
As the technician you arrive before the audience, to set everything up and do your sound check; and you finish after everyone has left, breaking down the equipment, winding up the cables, putting everything into the backpack. Everyone else has left, and it's a quiet time. The whole auditorium in yours. The soleness is astounding.
I've come across the manuscript while cleaning the garage, and sad to have left it to mould. I hate mould; I hate what mould does to paper.
The technician stands alone;
Everyone is gone
The air in the room moves differently;
The sound world comes from a distance where dreams begin;
Everyone is gone
The technician stands alone,
Everyone is gone
The technician stands alone,
The morning turned into day;
The room filled up and emptied out again,
The room empties out again
The morning becomes night,
Given a Japanese influence, here is how I would render this now, returning it to the original:
The technician stands alone;
The air in the room moves differently;
The sound world comes from a distance where dreams begin;
Everyone is gone.