Intoxication

I can feel it, like a fluctuating superfluity, the muse of magnanimous soul. A dealer, a faker, a dreamer.

The smoke, curling sleepily in the dull midnight air, twists in circles, hypnotizing my awakened eyes.

I breathe in its fumes, or watch, silently, as its sensuality molds dances of beauty.

I look towards a point of light in the sleeping darkness. The light, glowing intensely; drifting my eyes from sleep, to consciousness, burdened by a rejuvenating drowsiness.

Ah, the pleasures of midnight sun!

These, the wishes of a bottomless hole, of a maddened disposition, of an easy laugh, of an easy cry. Ah, smoke! My quiet, evening repose; My rosary in times of helpless religion; My mentor, in the flights of arrival and departure. My lover, at times when dawn tints the horizon with blushing hues; when the fizzle of morning air fills our youth.

These melancholies; simply ramblings of an old soul.
Ah, that man should have only memory to impress upon him the weight of this impossible eternity! This maddening, rabid animal which kicks and bites at the corners of our fears, of our selfish hopes, of our dreams.

Satan! Yes, oh memory, you alone are the devil of our desperation.