10 Pm. Deeply intoxicated. Outside there's a stadium of crickets. There's no room for silence. My writing leans and sways on paper in a slow eliptic waltz. A dead rose on the bookshelf. As I stare at it, it starts to bloom. It smells of july. I turn away and close my eyes for a second. Je me promène dans les jardins de temps. J'ai le même son mais ma langue est plus doux. Oder auch nicht. Seems like I slept for millennia. My pencil won't write. As I sharpen it, long strips of wood fall from it like live skins of a shedding snake. I stare at them for a while. Then at my pencil. An inert snake with gold engraved on its back: "EVOLUTION 655 China HB/no 2 CHENHAO". I ponder for a second about the meaning. My lungs seem heavier with each expiration. My iron lungs. Ash falls on the paper from a cigarette I seem to have forgotten I hold. Innocence of a mistake.
I tried putting some music but I changed my mind. A weird rythm was already within my skull. Reminded me of summer. Of Venice Beach. Of Vama Veche. It's been autumn for too long. I took another drag. From a shelf in the room, my acoustic guitar starts playing by itself a strangely familiar spanish tune. Where have I heard that? Impossible to know. Inchid ochii. Incet adorm.