I'm tittering on the brink of a sensational wonder: my feet are off the ground and my eyes are way above the clouds. I can see the birds wriggling along their path, whatever that might stand for, and flogging the air in a silver lining of dust and despair. Onset of a war, cannon balls struggling their way to me, Soviet and Nazi tanks bombing the sky and I remain still, I stay put, I dig in my heels in the wind. I look down, my misery, my fall. I walk through nauseating svelte rotten bodies and flowers tainted with the sweet smell of pornography. I step along gateways angels fear to tread and bump into it: ash coloured eyes, lovely hands, despicable enchanting sense. "I love you", I buzz in a corroborative way. It invites me to climb up the stairs of desire. Side by side, hand in hand, step by step, bit by bit: I touch its lips and it crows victoriously, as the tanks take flights, as the birds bear the blame of my my never-ending decadance. "I know that I'll love you". A sentence floating in the strings of a dissonant piano: who dare bitch about that? Who ventured that? Who is affirming that? Is it me? Is it it? The top, the summit, the zenith: we are there, under the gound, hidden like two flocks of sheep, waiting for the fox to devour our intimate itinerant intentions - "hold on tight, grab my hand, donnot let me go", it insists. The gigantic beast shows up, in a purple song of farewell, it bids it to go, they revolve in a puddle of opium and delusion. I do not care, I drink their liquid and feel everything: the child crying, the woman giving birth, the malnourished begging, the hopless sobbing, the madwoman in the attik, bats in the belfry and carry on. Indeed. Carry on. Taken my the notes of a simple do, I'm offered a lift on the wings of an eagle, or is it a falcon? Probably a falcon. mingle myself to its softness and softly pearches in its hand: it grins. He smiles: "Welcome home, I was anticipating your arrival, you are mine, for ever. Hello, my life", I beam.