I often respond to the storytelling of your life
with chills down my spine
I cover myself in an orange blanket
I become a blind rabble that ends up
At the edge of the bed of a cliff
Unable of tears or poetry
Seeking another type of seeing

Now we are grown up kids
That need a lot of fingers to count the time past
Deep fingers to drown to touch the very first pain
So they can maintain happiness
Here I go again…

It’s only then, suddenly and fiercely
That survival comes
And puts me in an emergency take-off
In a defense speed, almost light speed
I move away in a blur of infinite iridescence

So I see you, my friend, as a shade of blood
Of a rhythm
- Whether you agree or disagree or find yourself in mutism -
As a playmate on the same chord as us
A famous composer of a big board game
That some people call history
And some call history of lust.