It is dawn, and frosty. And I’m groping about an alarm clock without the cuckoo, an asexual one, which would rouse your collection of conclusions from perfusions; rococo aunts under a eunuch École normale-ist presse-papier. And I come upon you, but forever thirteen minutes earlier, as I shall find you, today, once more fulfilled-hopelessness between me and the bed. Or maybe the day after tomorrow, undermined by the passing of your time or maybe a perfumed and tender cottage piano-like pedal, trampled on masterly by the sandal of A Bach, Baudelaire, Reviso, between shower and coffee, Between your left breast and my sling elastic.

It is seven in the morning in life everlasting, so much blue and I feel like the pragmatic locking himself in the bathroom, so that death wouldn’t encounter him wavering. I sing in the street to leave the sight of a free man. True or false: it is nothing but another day among mermaids, statesmen, feminists in search of an identity and puddles of male pride.

Quarter past seven and I’m asking for only one pretext for good morning, for the last beggar, before crossing in different directions, before losing him for an eternity.
Half past seven. One can hear an old blues from the bathroom, Urmuz-blues, Urmuz-blues, Urmuz-blues… It is the heavenly bolt in Wall Street. I dedicate to you the cut in the shave foam sledging, head over ears in love with your ardent palms embracing my memory.