Impulses are strong; catechisms are laid out across the yards of my impaired beauty. I am dusted, that’s all I am. I am dusted along the dark deep side of life, the swing of Italian beat, the slow-beat Jazz. I am on a carousel of beauty not insane, of unrealistic depression. My laughter sounds good; the whistles of my mouth high pitched. I am like a tangled string, knotted only at times. Yet I do not drift, for I am tangled, may be knotted, yet tangled onto lurid tales of love, crimson catechisms as my summer houses, as I dream. Yet those impulses shall not last, with their old loveless sound, their fake glamour, for I am bound. Those shall be the days of velvet, roses and wine on my summer mind.