Between Your Legs Yesterday, I woke up under a strange ceiling. I dreamed I was a stray bullet at an irrational angle or some shit like that. Something, definitely better than what I can say about this place. Maybe we've never been here or maybe I never caught up with you. The point is, you are not here and nothing is as you said. L. A. is not a city of stars, it is a city of clouds. Absolute stupid-amorphous-gray-clouds. L. A. is, in any case, a ghost under a large cemetery of floating dreams. I want to go, smoke between your legs, hear you lie to me in deserts, storms, ammunition, ghosts, pins, wings, rain, night. Your hair, my knees, your loneliness, my grief: black chestnut, black you, me>you ... Understand? I want to take you to the cemetery of dreams to watch infinity die.