Like golden memories of childhood bliss. Safe. Warm. Things feeling good when a lover’s smile reflects into your puzzled eyes. Full of happiness and content like a sun-drenched cat, lovers leave the world and travel to some other place. It’s somewhere akin to imagination. To the golden shores of pornography. These vices that attack the senses. Stimulants that quicken tired hearts. Anything other than this broken system. To leave behind what is dull and plain. To drink. To take drugs. To escape. Madness propels. It delivers us to a plain no one else knows. Kissing stars and stretch marks. Holding onto hips while the rain pours down around us. Trains and flashing headlights as we embrace. In the early hours when everything is quiet, there’s no other feeling like it. Sleeping like angels, the days come and go like they never even mattered. Silver ballet pumps, and long brown hair that falls over pert breasts. Teeth like sugar, and bones as whole as souls. Tunnel of love. Sepia distraction and the scent of lemon and citrus on varnished floorboards. As the moth dances around the swaying light bulb, all you can do is light a smoke and write poetry. A thousand masks for your enemies, and only praise for everyone who ever loved despite the loss that awaited them at the end. To do what you feel is right even when you know you’re doomed to failure. If you make a stand, then you can only win. It doesn’t matter about anything else. If you put up a fight, you’re halfway to the stars already. Grow a beard to be free, not to look the part. Live a lifestyle because it makes you feel real, not to become what others deem is a fair attempt at living. Laugh in the face of adversity. Piss on ideals. Seek perfection. Taste God.