I hate it at times

I hate it at times when I do not have to love it from the bottom of my heart and then when you search for the torch light or the circle of light of the witches and the whole population of the town disappears and a newer fearless race appears in the sky and it descends on forest fires of absolute orange of a colour of flames thrown inside a gunny-bag with fingerprints inside them all belonging to officers of the bank and medicine men and people of architecture and tailors and security personnel guarding ferocious dogs that bark and ask for juicy meat and bones with green bottles of cold beer carried across in the sky by cloud pillows in pillboxes of multiplicity of compartments where mice run away from blocks of offensive cheese with holes large enough o swallow moons craters and all when hand sharp metal hooks thrown into the river chasing butterflies after the flowing electric current and eels sealed in envelopes with wax and floral patterns unbreakable ciphers and secrets of miniscule proportions in fingers pinched between fingertips potato tubers with eyes spreading their roots in all directions all around like the rays of ultraviolet light that makes white glow extra-white absorbing all black of grape juice in icebox refrigerators and ice cubes falling down like rain from the sky – no, not like rain, but rain indeed of cubes of ice each with volume x times x times x where x is the length of a side, x cubed of what a drag it is counting falling ice cubes like rain counting eggs and fingers before they catch a cold