Nothing is
stationary.
You make
breakfast, and here my hunger is consumed by thoughts, premature. No, not
thoughts of you, but what you do. The songs you play seep straight into my guts.
Else, nothing is straight.
Everything
is dance, and play and whizzing. Your bed is not your bed, but my seat. You are
not you but my imagination. But I imagine as I fear. Nothing is straight.
It´s all
spaghetti, prepared in homemade tomato sauce mashed with our very own hands,
pulped to lust and juice. Yes, juice is the correct word to describe the
movement inside me. It has been pouring for over twenty four hours now. That´s
how wet I am.
