Something cold is in the air, an aura of ice and phlegm.
All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
The horizon bleeds and sucks its thumb.
The little red thumb goes out of sight.
And I wonder about this lifetime with myself, this dream I'm living.
I could eat the sky like an apple but I'd rather ask the first star: why am I here? why do I live in this house? who's responsible? eh?
