Sitting, laughing at the mindless humanoids croaking in their swarm. While
recalling Omar Khayyam. How we changed in the holy sun high on holding
hands. The pilot crashed with Rupert Brooke they blew together fast on other
levels. He spoke, softly, opened by the wine. A father pushing fear and looking
for redemption. Someone hurry he thought as the waves rolled their way
through concentration. It's all too much he seemed to want to say but could
not
make the necessary juncture. How he loved the lady by my side. Rococo lady,
daughter of the African the westernized. He is searching for a whole to be in
to
make himself. How we changed there in the holy sun high on holding on.
You might be different, I can see it in your eyes, you, you might be something,
I
can read it in your sign.