Blackened for gold’s scent, the carrier of air bubbles is craving the normalcy diffused through the eyelids of the soft-spoken admirer. Gently weeping, the gold turns into a scream, audible to the deaf, visible to the blind. It is like an obnoxious near-death experience, a saccharose rush to the small intestine, potent and lackluster at the same time. Will it break the sound barrier on leap years? He who is yearning his own solitude will soon comprehend the exhaustiveness of a neutral land soiled by the smile of the orphans.