`It could have been as simple as the loves of Baroque dawns. But it wasn`t! Not even by mistake. I had to get tired of the whys and dig deep in them before stretching out at the bottom of the stairs, because he didn’t come. He didn’t come again. I didn’t say a word. Neither to him before nor to myself after. I just waited for the Baroque dawn to lead me back to me.
I looked up and after a while I had to realise everything, every single thing got back to the way it used to be before. We got on the boat, left the island and on the deck of our lonely roamer ship, bathing in fog we avoided each other once again and I the couples.
In my dream I went up to the `Circular` Mountain Peak. It was beautiful. Poems were running down on its side cutting vessels amongst the syllables, listing stanzas with the least variations of a-s and ah-s with one or two and-s wedged in, though. Going upwards the road was serpentine, but I couldn`t find anything on the way down. I just slid and slid as if I was falling into the muck.
My awakening by tearing a dazed pleasure trip swallowed me back into reality. My cabin was moving on its place with the ship. My wet pillows were ceased under my stomach and back. My legs gone numb my arms and face were awaking behind the red striped clothes prints. Duvet cover colour was reflecting on the flush of my skin until blew appeared around the window and by the time the smell of sleep got in touch with the heavy body of the sea, the writing has died. The thoughts are aching. Aching so much. Even though I love its dead on time guards. Those somethings, the voices, the fragments of words, the memory pieces, the mediatory clamorous who carries along those screams on the streets. The sleepy and sleepless queens of achieving the great harangues are stretching out on my bed. They are following the boy from back to back. The fundus of the eye shows black. Maybe a growth is ripening.`
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