There’s nothing more efficient in an silver veiled freezing night than a cozy washroom and turbulence of hot water. But there are herons on my bathroom tiles, staring with empty wisdom, staring the blurr moon. There’s a water body too, kind of flowing with modern sarcasm on this ceramic…and a flower diluted with silicon booze. Before these surrealism I am thinking about the possibility of existence of a heron on a drunk, pitch wooven night. I must say I have failed the heron today…she has found the craving topaz. Oblivion is filled with likes of me, asshole trapped inside a washroom.