The mountains are alcoholic. The clouds above them, they too are alcoholic. The rivers of thawed out ice that flow from their summit, they taste like a billion shots of chilled Sambuca ready to take us far away from the piss-stained streets that offer nothing but the same old faces and same reasons to say no. Women are beautiful creatures, and yet they’re also vampires and tombs, or maybe that’s just what I turn them into? Young lovers sing these songs, these gloriously fresh songs, and although they’re so vibrant and the fact they exist sends shivers down your spine, you know they will come to an end. But that’s not the worst part, the worst part is they won’t even be celebrated. They’ll just be forgotten like everything else. But those mountains, and the way that liquor glistens on her belly as she floats downstream- it makes me supernatural. Butterflies. Caterpillars. Chrysalis. Upper lip. Lower lip. Sequences involving merging. Pages from a diary containing teenage wasteland and the flies that circle the honey on her neck. Notes on Morphology. Sketches of a breakdown and the rebirth of the one who appeared from the ashes. The animals are not passengers, they drive the visions. In fact, they bring them from the forest and leave them at my doorstep. Between their bloody teeth, and upon the twigs caught in their fur, there is so much they have yet to show me, but how much are they willing to show? And who could ever know of their origins? Over the fields and through the subways and alleyways she is a beacon. In the deserted shopping malls and the buildings soaked in darkness, her song is eternal. It lifts us up to heaven and won’t let us down, but it’s okay, because we don’t want to come down. We have reached a time in our lives where there are no more reasons to be real. These inner fears- these demons we carry with us- all we need is to let them go, and we shall fly. Yes, we shall fly until we are never seen again.