Knock, knock

Knock, knock – who’s there – you – you who – how does it matter to you – woo hoo – what do you care – dark cat – how does it matter to you – ha you wish and so on go conversations about knocking on doors late in the night where the clouds are drinking hot chocolate cocoa in one eared mugs of jealousy and ill-will marking the beginning of a brand-new war bending the rules and light diffracting little rivulets of smoke mainly miniature mushroom worlds growing muddy under the speeding footsteps hurrying going off somewhere to never return to the bones of Napier to count and to calculate the distance between Saturn and Titan wondering wonderful tasty peanuts roasted fried shaken with salt not stirred or is it the other way around making zero-zero-seven or just seven bonds with new friends who love adventure and curvy women always ready to go to the beach with them in fancy cars to drink margaritas with the master and to look at the master and the margarita back and forth and forward and in reverse is only a gear that Bulgakov didn’t care about neither in Russian nor in translation in English or Korean capability of capacity building is what the countries are worrying about having built all their dams and forests and private heavens and hells, havens for jelly and teddy bears bored bitter with ninety-seven percent dark chocolate excellently spread sheets excelling in oversized underwear double excel opening a new book to work on or a new sheet to place all the soft feather pillows for K-girl to rest her head on, for she has had a long day of lifting weights and her breasts and boom-boom buttocks – dear diary, far away vision so pleasant so cool so sweaty so grass a crass course to learn things quickly within seventeen days before the passing of yet another summer filled with wild boars and boats with oars that have taken an oath never to lie or to never be the other thing that no other thing really wants to be – really, really