As I keep on collecting each steps of this swift clock, 

I saw nothing to sprinkle over the compassions and melancholia. 

There’s economy, there’s politics, there’s middle class kisses all over this quivering palates. 

Nine to five…turmoil, thrillers, suspensions, broken dreams. 

five to ten… allibis, getting drunk with tranquility and translations, and slouching urban Utopia. 

Ten to neonless diabolical space…sex, poetic one night stands, some decisions through your breathings and youth feasted veins. 

Then there’s nothingness for art, for singularity,

for the mathematician, for the hallucinating painter.  

The billions of suns…pale and yellow…over the peach trees, over the flowered dead bodies, 

letting us choose to feel the clock somewhat differently from the previous one.