A silence prepared like broth, conceived like life bathes me. I have nothing much, a body, a soul covered in chains and chuckles, and perhaps a few personal belongings. My intensity goes round dark corners, my love around broken alleys. My thoughts are like a drowned milky music, played over a vintage piano with crystal white keys and broken strings. Like abstractions and poetry, like murders and bloodshed, like the sweet scent of unintelligible verse pardoned by discarded neglect. The sweet sound in the night of a familiar soprano voice, like a terrible dream whistles. That is how life is, like a chocolate; bitter when it is dark, sweet when its skies are white. The afternoon hasn’t gone, but only in my dreams.