I can't think. There is a feeling of death lingering in my tea. It's somewhat tart and unconfortable. It does not think It does not know I am tart and unconfortable.

And here comes Poe's knock on my window.

I'm a moth, a too inflamed butterfly - that's what moths are (they are inflamed with love, mainly) - and I stare with the corner of my eyes. It's really pleasant to have a cup on my moth hands. I am George Samsa. I cross my legs and stare like Holly Golightly and I am charming as hell. (That's why I keep on smoking.)

But I am alone and you stare at a hundred different earings trying to find love where you may, and lust where you will. And you will throw them away - with tea; because you are beautiful and you are vile. And I will throw mine away; because they have already composed my Cranach's work of Heaven and I don't desire them.

You're in the other side of town (you are small but I have good eyes), and I see there is no possibility of running into you even if I kill a hundred different trees that I see on my way.

I educate myself in every music style there is so I can love, and I love. I am now something the mirror flirts with, because it does not know, and sometimes I flirt with everything that walks.

(I got news of you dancing around town with your pack of disbelief.)

But still, back to me moth, two or three chinese girls of eight jump and dance in front of me

in this dim room for which i am paying, like persecuted animals with no food. They prey and I pray (and I prey too) so I can come up to heaven and observe your love from above. I can understand the full picture of this canvas and you do many things with love when you don't notice, and I am yours, it's a fact, and it's ok; I am resigned, you know?