My fingernail tastes like nectar as I sink my teeth into it. The air is a furnace with fumes that feel both drowsy and dreadful. This summer trance is an eternal one, without a saving grace. My room is like a cubicle of sultry fantasies. In my head, I rule the world. I control their desires and their dreams. The social compass I carry is broken, it has been so for a long time. Solitude and the smell of homegrown leaves. The television stays mute, for the conversations in my mind are too ebullient for this world. And too crude. They cannot handle it. Neither can I, of course. Chastity is tragic. So utterly unspectacular. I want collisions and sparks and flames. The cosmic patterns continue their dance and when the world sleeps, I remain the sole spectator of the spectacle. The lines on my palm reveal and reflect my fallen angel status. Such twisted theories. God, how I love them. If there’s anything that causes me both pleasure and pain, it’s the beautiful mess of my mind. As cluttered it may be, it helps me to understand the universe a little better when I want a break from unravelling the beastly secrets from the dungeons within. After all, what’s life without a little whimsy? Staring at the ceiling, I imagine it to be a galaxy waiting for me to come back home. It sings to me in ways most people can’t. It’s her song that helps me sleep at night. Crooners and lullabies of the lovers, be damned. The universe speaks, always. Feel her movement in your bones. When life pleads for reawakening, you must respond to her clarion call. It takes a lifetime to listen and a second to crumble. Deathknell or daylight. Winter or spring. The ground or the galaxy. What will it be? We were born to die but also to fly. We may lack substance and meaning but there’s a always a purpose. Find it. It’s calling you home, somewhere in the starry stratosphere, where you’ll be safe and sound.