a year ago I was licking myself all over like a cat. There were crocodiles sunning themselves on the banks of a river. It was clear
that they were all poets out hunting for images to drag them into the deep of language. I told them all to bugger off. I told them to stop writing poems
and to start growing flowers and while I had their ear I quickly slipped in that we are all equal in our sleep and that all the joy in the world pours forth from forests in the cool of the night.