We drain the bottle as the clouds piss rain like some young Brazilian kid pumping out blood on the streets of the favela. Y’know, bullet holes and the like. Bad haircut. Flipflops. We can’t see the clouds on account of how dark it is. It’s as dark as the bottom of the sea or a memory of a shady sexual encounter in some bar where inhibitions were nowhere to be seen. The bottle leaves my hand and flies through the air, disappearing into the ether. A few seconds later it smashes on the pavement as fighting cats screech and howl somewhere out of sight. The shards of glass from the bottle bounce upwards and hang in the air. They surround us in a circle. Like daisies, or a ring of meteors. Momentarily floating, they fall and dance as we laugh as the smoke from our cigarettes streams from our nostrils. Society is mostly rubbish. We should live in the woods. This we speak about for some time as the wine from the next bottle slides down our throats. We should live off the grid because the grid drains our souls of the electricity of the gods, y’know? We should become as light as air and travel through the tiny pinpricks in the night sky that reveal the light from another realm, right? The dreams we keep in our heads are all the more magical because one day they will wither beneath the touch of father time, right? As we skip from street to street, we trip until our feet go from beneath us. Sprawling into a bush behind a postbox, we shelter from the rain as our lips speak what our bodies have yet to say.