The moment she begins, some guy in Brazil is forced to his knees in a ditch by the side of the road. The second she sticks those fingers in as deep as they can go, the guy gets his head blown off with an assault rifle wielded by some kid wearing flip-flops and a neat, waxed moustache. The head, it flowers up and explodes just like she does as she bites and chews the invisible lips of the one she thinks about when she should be thinking about the one she calls a lover. But she can’t help it. This other, he takes her someplace where she isn’t known, and such a sense of unbecoming is what makes her feel alive more than anything. That guy though. That poor fucker. Watching his demise through the gaps between the fingers of my right hand, I imagine what he must’ve been thinking while looking down the barrel of the gun. Regret? Fear? Defeated acceptance? When she shudders and kicks her legs imagining a moment when her lips finally meet his, does she know only pure joy, or is it dampened by the dirty traces of reality that always stick around no matter how much we try casting them aside? When I’m standing there before the bathroom mirror imagining myself as a baby back in my mother’s womb, I visualise the blood-stained earth much the same as she does even though she doesn’t realise its meaning as she wipes her brow while whispering his name as if such a thing would make him appear beside her. That guy and his exploding head, is he with the angels as they dance with the stars in the heavens above, or does he swim with the demons and devils as he did in life? Brushing my teeth while peeling back my foreskin, I lose sight of the answer as the nature of my experience appals me once more. Lying there motionless, she keeps calling that name but remains alone both in flesh and soul. So she closes her eyes and goes to sleep, and that sleep, how so often it saves her the same as it saves me.