The blood of each road

The blood from each of the roads in this city looks like a nervous firefly procession. Fewer people than during the day, motorists and truck drivers run at higher speeds, with their feet on the accelerator, weighing like a flash dream.

I went to the ATM and swallowed up the fruits of my labor. Nothing really stops in a city, nothing stops completely on this Earth. When we sleep, people work a little for us, when we wake up, we take over a bit for them.

I slowly bumped my forehead against this real wall, not to lament as some hypnotized people do, but to crack the weak bark of my consciousness.

My mind is a muscle; it is like this night that invents more than gray cats. My encounters are dreamt days and nights. I try to keep my eyes open even if I, too, snuggle against the shoulder of the handsome Morpheus. But is he that beautiful? He is only a polymorphic butterfly that takes the form of our desires.

Life gets impatient when it is continuously given the light of ambrosia. I like the night, I want to understand, I like to discover. This is how it is with our encounters. The hazardous fruit is crunched like a delicious apple.

But that night, cashing only my check in a patient and cold machine, there was no one to tell me a story. I wisely went home and fell asleep. Morpheus lay down next to me and intoxicated me.