Fiddling with my balls, galaxies merge like two lovers drunk on rum and Turkish coffee. Then comes exhaustion. A sorta fugue state delivering me to a place where the picking hands of modern life are no more than blades of grass beneath my dancing left feet. Sleep is my favourite thing. So is the creation of stars, and the roar of the sun as it reddens my flesh even though dusk has yet to birth itself on the horizon before my lazy, weeping eyes. The rivers of rain that stream down the sidewalk are the colour of the rum I once drank as a student. Those days are now as tiny as granules of sugar. They dissolve on my tongue. They hide beneath my pillow like strands of her hair. Tickling my nose while I sleep, they slither over my body as piano music reaches through the window, wrapping its fingers around my ankles. The air is light, heavy. It tastes of lakes the shape of her womb. Lakes the shape of birthmarks that reside just on the other side of knowing. The hours fall like leaves. The mattress my forever home, yet still I linger in parking lots, shuffling about in search of yesterday like a drunk trying to find his way to the pub. The galaxies hang like fairy lights, and as my balls shrink to the size of neutron stars, so her body explodes taking mine along with it.