In the bottle, there’s God. In your belly, God also. Everything else is dust. Everything else just pales in comparison to the mystery of your kiss and the bliss of falling asleep beneath the stars not fearful of tomorrow. I’ve mentioned before how Bukowski said that drinking is like a suicide attempt you wake up from. I’ve also mentioned that love is only real if it cuts your heart like a knife. Or one of those big machetes they use in the favela to hack off fingers and limbs with. If the one you desire doesn’t stir madness within you, then baby, it’s not love. If you don’t lose your mind thinking about that someone, and if that someone doesn’t push you close to the edge, then they’re as pointless as everyone else. And this world is just brimming with pointless fuckers. They’re everywhere. Spewing their dick mantras and doing their best to convince others that what they worship is what needs worshipping above everything else. It isn’t. So job done, and get fucked, stud. But yeah, your belly and your smile and the shine of wine that sends shivers up my spine. And it even rhymes, so it must be true, right? I’ve killed myself so many times now, but I keep waking up the next morning as if such horrors weren’t even real. There have been so many lonely moments when I’ve given up and given in, and yet here I am, still going with a stupid grin on my face as if the world couldn’t bring me down even if it tried until the end of time. These inner blues, this pain, it keeps on growing, but so the music of my life grows, too. It tastes as sweet as your song. Your song I will always sing.