i wanna sail and sail on horizon's port; vista: fresh neat yellow scotch w/ old beef-red wine, sometimes seems like orange juice spilt over the sky and sometimes, lumps of candy floss of an orange colour dye.
Towering mast; our blessed dilapidated boat; ~where slicked hair, ~arched eyebrows, ~dropped jaws, ~bulging eyes, and sacredness sit; lingered breaths and two collapsing ribcages, a place where sugared lips once kissed.