You're standing in a strange, foreign land, at the height providential to someone, on the structure lacking stability. You feel, you quaintly indulge in the heat, redolent of sour cherry and chemicals heat. You're feeling good. Never before have you tarried so much before throwing out the fag. Never before have you deliberately drawn in the already mean and gnawing puff. Because you're feeling good. You don't pout. You think of the present throbbing sound inside where the Bohemia breathes, where the ghosts walk. You sigh. You do? You are not. Only the little frame of a soul, the quaggy hinge of it, is. You don't know how many times have you already asked yourself where you are. If you don't know - who should? You plain - maybe nobody is...

You kiss the neck of the bottle, the warm with hands neck, you don't swallow a poison - it is the elixir of guts, of trust, of latitude. And you blink over and over again. Not even with eyes, your entire anima is flickering! To the wonder. To the delight of everything. And to the disparate else, too. Whilst this insolent Something is dilating, from the shy tip of a tongue it's growing, twisting, it thrives. And then you find yourself seated in the jungle of Something, where instead of a knife you're handling a thought. Not for the viperous waste, but for the path.