There are inward drops of shimmering lights on my windshield. 

And in a moment I am there at that rugged cabin…

with white bedsheets, cheap chandelier…with the ever arousing you. 

This transcendence has come with a poetic schizophrenia…

‘come baby come with me…come under the sheets…and cum for the mountains and oceans you have tasted with me.’ 

Those were the exact words…last words, reciprocating my carnivorous anxiety. 

And then the eternity of torned manhood…and she went with the whoosh of a North wind. 

Maybe locking yourself inside four walls of gray turbulence and drinking the shit out of you isn’t the most worst of things there is. 

There are surreal lies of phone calls, there are dying memories of hitchhiking the mystic mountains, 

but there’s a intangible lock outside this shithole…and it has been my obsession to check that lock once in a while with a balloon inside my eyes.