The sun rises in your eyes, and I am a bag lady before my time. On a beach drenched in memory, eternity comes and goes in the to and fro of each wave, and although our bones will turn to dust and one day float through the stratosphere without so much as a whimper, in the here and now, in this lonesome hour, the feelings that blister my heart set me apart from the statues that surround me. The town rumbles, and the city sinks, and as the smoke from my cigarette cradles the moon, dead flowers litter the distant reaches of the sky. Mirrors distort what’s already distorted, and as my smoke-stained fingers pick at the holes in my skin, the music in me is the music in you, a divine truth that spreads across the land to a soundtrack of crashing cars and flowered-up skulls as on some street in the favela a bullet to the brain is purchased as cheaply as a line of cocaine. I am not a man of good morals, although I am a man of feeling; of secret truths that eclipse the shadows in my mind like an endless sunrise, because more than anything, I thirst for ideas as potent as the act of saliva dripping from the tongue of one lover to the other as this inky world of wonder gives birth to the mother of possibility.