Nocturnal fantasies enunciated with a slur, deer shying away from the dark, spawning tales of a close encounter with a passing lorry. Swallowing headlights with fast food, God on speed dial, obligated to return the favour and give birth to the moon.
Crossing the Atlas on a silver spoon bathing in gamma rays, while some apes in cabarets hurl dung pellets at their favourite glowing teats. Remembering the oddities, the constant need for wanderlust, and the sorrows hung on a pine tree, only to forget them.
Since then, at Christmas, the rivers were always red. Red, like the merry tune stuck in my head—at this stage, I no longer know if I want to, or even if I can, whether I am a swan or a pelican.