I raise my heavy eye-lids, and pull their decorated pearls with them to absorb the pale blue light of the dotted sky –the dove fell asleep within its soft brown plumage– the last of the clouds reflected shadows of any creature a-like and the ashes that sediment my white table, run oscillapously like the cockroach I spot from the corner of my eye. Forget and get to writing, and to the drinking; the cezve is a bottomless well of black Arabic sand (from which the coffee I, now drink, grew). I brewed-up the textures and contours of every-thing’s faces onto the obverse of the skin that, with one nictation, becomes a placenta flooded by different lights than the ones everyone sees by custom –with feelings I drew. My myopia only truly listens to the rules of Gaia’s breathing, and my body knows that the ovalled glasses I wear are the biggest lie it carries –before scarlet dusks, the orange A of Jaffa rises with the E of green leaves in mornings of ecstasis; the city’s pores and mine –in total seven– shine a yelling yellow I, whose shrills interject the melodic feathers of grandpa’s auriferous finch. “Oh, red hemoglobin, you take long to fill my eyes, for the transparency of my H stamps blue letters on the sky, where the Y is lurking behind a cloud to shine as bright.” Her O’ing lips dilating for a pink tongue to drown with –“Orange muse of mine, if only you could swim in the colors I bathe-in and join me with the rest of the Muses, because, to look into their iridescent nacre can make your pupils turn into the blue obsidian of U –the furthest ray. The furthest letter –can become you.” The canary’s song glides out of its cage, and the salted breeze carries pink petals onto my lap so I can see them.