I like to rage on with flying snakes. The fog deepens. You skid on the ice of the bridge after the freezing rain. Infidelity becomes the pick of the day. I look at my Goldie, the pug, sitting on the step. Waiting for me like a meditating Buddha, eyes half-closed.
Let me see your hands. Your bones are becoming frail, twisted. You cannot lift the book, hold the pen. When you write, your hands start trembling, as if you are being watched, to write your last will or ready to jump in the river.
Life had been very cruel. When you said, you are a dervish, the hyenas started laughing.