What are you doing son? 

Sitting at the start of this desert with a hanging sun and the unrequited love for purple nights. 

Can you smell the sea? 

No, it’s miles away, it has started it’s journey to it’s core…without my divine cacophony. 

Why? 

It’s the dilemma, the wisdom of a pregnable twilight. 

You must be feeling retentive…you must need a thick bread and a female body with astounding breasts. 

No, I need a strident smoke, and a ride of a carousel around the world. 

Light’s fading, it’s the moment of reincarnation, you must be the poet? 

So shut the fuck up. 

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