It's sometime past 4 in the morning. I don't really care about anything. Not even you. You who I write for. You who I don't even know who you are. It's perhaps the smoke that's still somewhere lit in me. It's perhaps that wine I drank a few hours ago. Or perhaps those eyes whose sense I'm incapable of.
It's perhaps the biggest murder mystery of our times -- and for once we're sure of the killers but not of the dead. The dead roam among us.
My beatnik drivel, filled with Dickens gloom and everything but a Beckettian tragedy. It could've turned. The morning bare. Reason marooned on an island of despair. And what words -- and words that sleep with time. Nothing but sexual.
The human mind stapled on a chart. With every thought painted as a dark storm. With every emotion red with strawberry love. With every charcoal sketch of silver spoons and a sheesha of angry yellow cloud.
The war of seven swords. The one-eyed wizard, the naked witch, the talking cat -- dancing in the enchanted woods. What makes sense, what possibly could.
I'm here. You're there. Everything cleared from the mist to the crumpled sheets. The favourite sin and it's constant exorcism.
The faraway tree. The land of no return. Childhood. Wishing chair. Gnomes. Fairies. Mr Pink Whistle. Believed and torn. Like a weaver of an ancient carpet myth-smith.
I lie. To lie with everyone. And we cry blood.