I have been dreaming of banks smelling like hospitals for days now but have failed to record properly the smell of steel which emits a kind of scent indicating it has been twisted by the older nurses, whose needles have melted, picking up erosions and staler liquids left behind. Once again I have failed to take a decent picture, write one decent line, invent a single scenario, whose poison I might drink and use later on a more somber and fluorescent twilight with inadequate bathrooms to house the shades of green in your eyes and create small pools in the crevices of your tongue. Your nails have worn thin and grown tiny houses in their ridges, which invite sailors and their mistresses after a long day spent with the tide, whose lighthouses grew angrier as the scent of bombs and gasoline were tunneled through the pipelines beneath the waves. They have all grown restless, the ballrooms in your eyes have evaporated and remain nothing more than tiny caverns housing all telephone calls you should have incorporated into the loggings of a single day. Only then you pause and realize simply and with great pleasure, nothing more could possibly be said and at least now perhaps I have written something, which will take me out of the ocean I drowned in last night in my dreams.
BANKS & HOSPITALS