Stangers on the street... why don't you come over to my house? I see shining windows everywhere, with things and people behind. I like these windows coldness. Face it. I don't know what I am up to. I am stealing looks, shivering members.

Crystal light, dope snow, burning eyes, love punch, fire pulp, angels with stick legs dancing over a sea of light, coffee shoulders melt, lips take the sea, nobody hold their bodies, freefloater, the ghost night elevates us, no feet touch the ground, allowing the day vegetation to grow, and when the day comes back, we lie on this grass, where the hoppers with their millions magical legs put vicious ferments in our heads, and this ferment into the night, and lift ourselves over sanity, over the grass. When the thrill is gone, some fall on the floor, some taste it, some cry the hoopers poison and it just feels good, some scream and hope a soul to respond, sometimes the echo is just an insect crawling. Dying on one of your lumb. You will now experience difficulties breathing, 'till the insect desintegrate. Flaming bugs cooking up our wildest dreams, whispering it to us in the cold streets where we lose conscience of the world. While I am dreaming of a boat, Biniji is cooking up vicious visions, and as I cannot find a beautiful boat, I lie on the grass and let him whisper to me that I should chase little girls, that I should drink prohibited drinks, that I should be bad to everybody. I like the sound of his voice, and my voice echoing it. I will go wild soon: I like too much being a luminous bug. I don't like to be understood, so go away.