A man balances on the rope between his world and his moon. 

And he only thinks about death. 

Only when he finds himself inside a perspicacious vagina, he doesn’t have to think about it, 

death belongs there…the reflection of that shadowless fire belongs there…

He was born on the chair by his yellow and blue striped window…

And he paints all the urban aerosols from that chair. 

He dreams that one day he will bring a wooden gun of glass bullets…and he will shoot that right through his humid brain, 

that will be best painting on his walls.  

Everyday he sees a man with brown tie and black suitcase…marching with high chin and crystal eyes, 

he follows him to his fluffy bed of security and beautiful wife with good ass. 

He balances…he gets existential…he balances, 

he balances for all the peccadilloes of all the massless evenings.