The untamed joie de vivre of youth, mouths that refuse to snore at night, voices that scream in rebellion, mocking the knotted vocal chords of the infinite sky. These hands are controlled by the thin nerve of an obese present; they clap, they punch, dance around a fire on the rooftop- but forget to swim towards the future.
The sound of the moving truck mutes the commotion. The wave rises again, grows stronger in time to chase the roadside mutts and rodents. On these remote suburban islands, masculinity shows no interest in usurping the lady glow. The trousers don’t kick the skirts in the stomach; the Y doesn’t penetrate the X against her will. In this grand orgy of life, revelers lie naked under the blanket of cold air, wet their tongues with each other’s breath, and commit the sacrilegious crime of love.