The sheets of imagination part. I unveil a little jazz. A whole lot of swing. There is a woman who haunts me. Borgesian corridors of my own mind. She has a home up there. To her I swoon: "Come out and have a drink." Here, in the moonlit gardens of my psyche, I wait. Yeah, I'll wait for you, but, the deadweight is draggin' down the mood. Cut this all away, and I, can-knot lie. Lady, you're killin' the groove. My Elysian, shadowy queen. Promethean fire that fuels my vitae’s pyre. Byzantine web of your beauty. Your presence that vanishes like mist in the morning. Storm-tossed and shipwrecked. Lost in a diaphanous dream of hell. Desires are drowned in benthic and reflected. The futility of my passion, Lithuanian. Her name is a whispered apocalyptic incantation. A syllable of sweet succubal destruction. Boredom is the one true sin. The rest is art.