It was splat, a blot under the limitless undertone gray sky. I please the concept of rebirth and the infinity of the universe, the faint smell of roses and ivies, of poison and love, the lethargic ethereal vision of lover facades, kisses and tragedies.

The cigarette burns with a passion, like ivory soul and platinum heart. The butt is kicked off towards the gutter, thud. thud. thud. The memory of the ash and the smoke withers and ceases.

The love faints and fails. What the world is left of is space debris, neon-sun-powered-billboards and the post-apocalyptic tease of nuclear warfare and hunger.

Love is like diarrhea, when it comes it drains you. It won’t stop even after medication. It will, together with its consequences, conquer your life.

What we hold in our hands are cigarettes, burning flesh and rose petals; to the tune of blues, jazz and hypocrisy we seize the chance.

And the world is but an ashtray of common evil and lesser good.

For the love of love, we will compromise truth with consequence.