It cannot be otherwise, when tacky and tense sounds of a saxophone start cleaving the walls of an evening's kitchen. It cannot happen differently, when the sweetish smell of brewed camomiles is following the dense melody throughout the clingy walls. And this awkward knocking so fairly lightened by the forlorn street orb cannot be any different. And us both, we can't be smiling differently than now with our damp and coloured by the drowsing sun lips. Looking up with drowning in a secret eyes and diving in again. And hands, they're just resting here. By no means are they demanding and divining for a sapid touch - they're just laying on the table set with shadows. The tips of my fingers are playing solo of the flowered cup. Eyes of yours and mine glowing with a dim light are drowsing in a luscious mist. The sinking melody of the walls moves closer and webs my fingers. The blues lead them onto your warm cheek. My palm stills hand in hand with the nocturnal light on your unearthly face. The tea brews up again.