F̵̯̰̦͕͕̀͑͑̅͒͑̋́͘o̷̤̭͔̝̤̼͛̐̊̽̾͝r̸̡͚̝̬̲̫͖̜̐̾̏̔̎͘͠ͅ ̸͎̘̙͉͌͂͂̆̽̂̑͛̏̽M̷͖̍͜ḁ̵͖̝́̉̌t̵͔̽̒͋̐̅̈́̅ý̴̛̠͉̭͔̜͚͇̲̗͂͆̔́͗ͅá̷̧͈͇̬̪̝͇̀̈́̓̕͘s̵̪̫̯͔̱̠͓͙̫̅͛̚͝ for shame
One day, I will get off the tram, cut to the narrow side-street, on time for a change, I will find the rolled-up shutters over the run-down doors, put my hand in through the missing window, turn the handle, walk down the stairs, the lights will be off, but that happens, so I’ll proceed with the phone torch, I’m already hearing the others, so many of them in fact, but when I make my way to the room I’ll find it empty and there will be too many Christmas lights casting shadows on the mannequin reclining atop the bar, and all the paintings will be hanging upside down, and finally I’ll realize that all the voices of all the people who sat and wrote and read aloud in his group in these chairs, are being played back through countless little speakers, all the laughs and silences and slammed words are looping one over the other, and then my biggest fear will finally reveal itself, that of hearing my own terrible voice reading aloud my own terrible pieces • Ꙩ • Ꙫ • Ꙩ •, but though my ears will be sweaty I’ll fail to locate me in the din, until my feet are fleeing the room and on the doorway stands he, Mátyás with his dreads in a crown of Christmas lights, and he says:
“Yours is the only voice I’m missing. Do you consent to a recording?”
the Budafoki amended 