Crossing the triangle and thy will fall apart. I knew the mantra for sure and doomed to push that steak knife inside of me. Transgression is a great funeral to those who does self-psychoanalyse. But just beware that my feet start shivers and it’s very down-turn cold. I look at myself at the mirror and realise that not in very long time I will be hung out and dry.

I want to go to Abyssinian Plateau that you’ve been to. But what about the dead soldier in the garden? I saw it a week ago that is so bizarrely corrupt me to the core and keep me wanting to sleep through this restless absynthe dream.
Do you care? Your belligerent foul mouth penetrates and I wept fonder blissfully.

The sun now meets the ocean.
I feel slightly better and standing naked letting the breeze slips into the pore.
The quartet crescendo, and I see your shadow begin to vapour. Your insignia awaits and my mouth begins to dry.
There’s a lump in my throat but I couldn’t understand why until the two trains pass by.
I nearly jump in the track...my short-sighted view vapours in a blink of eye and I escape.

Here again tamed and wounded. Regret and guilt and sober. Memories steps in blissful colour, waiting for a sentence and I wept.
And then come a cup of latte and blistering cold again and again.
The libretti soars in, and the pain kicks in.
The Abyssinian Plateau, the whore, the boy that I left behind, and all troubles deja vu all over again.

Eternal Bliss..it’s far away across the ocean.