It suddenly began, like the way it did before, Struck me with its feathers, and blackish steam. Neglecting, my fingers' crawling to another key, Searching those soiled clips that walked abreast. Turn off the lights, yes, please, those gleaming. There lies pinkish Freud, a kind of wood, wavering, In the cold and warm and cold sheets of warmth, I keep forgetting what is that I truly detest, Or love. Seeing through, I understood naught; I marveled at how they came to name it so grandly. Gliding at the left side of the passageway, I saw Songs being woven into a motionless protest. But I cannot evite, the little flickers in black, Looking silverfish orange, and of meek nature. Aggressing, fondling, ticking off second by second. And I'd simply dry heat all the rest. --

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