A small child in the gardens of the nightingale hears the nightingale sing. It howl like small wolf, so much so, like they can break glass and their own soul with shrill cry out.

You pretty there, like a ghost in a flowing long white dress that blows in the wind.

Scared beyond belief by the apparition, yet I never want it to end. You represent everything to me. The horror of so much beauty that it can end the world with one swift kick.

And people wonder why one dies in his or her own sleep.

As the white walls drool you, spit you out onto another paper page. Your ghost go there and invite me out for coffee. We sit in café and drink, while the city outside the café windows become engulfed in waves, floods, drown. Somehow, we are oblivious.

Young girl there, standing among the blood pools, kicking it all up with a wild laugh.

She is at the foot of my bed, while I lie, deep inside the paralysis. Sweet sweet tangerine, whiskey breath, and whiskey breath takes a sharpie and draws a face on his favorite tangerine, figuring that the fruit is happy because he is high on some fuzzy chemical, or some vague truth that can intoxicate the best of us.

Several days down the road. I can sit up in the bed, in a dark room, with the wild women, whiskey breath, and his tangerine pet. “WB” as I call him has been grooming the little sucker for social interaction from day one. With enough input, it grows arms and leg and hair and speaks normal, like people. Just as if it is supposed to.

In the gardens of the world. We’ve got all this flowers around us all these amazing color. all this noise as post-dawn birds sing their thing into the eve, blow songs in the night. The sun dies out fades away as tangerines ferment into whiskey, young girls in white drunk on the result.

The hotel manager twists a sharpie into my guts, and the cops always take his side.

Still, I gotta say

How can you leave me like this?