Contours of her skin, like familiar landscapes that come to life with sunlight, all of those blooming wild flowers and the air thick with ethereal scent, dreams of classical composers, travel writers, and the poetry kept me awake, certain echoing phrases needed to pour out of me like a sieve. I painfully ignored them and now they are lost. Disappearing giants, white night mare snow storms and musical mathematics make it hard to know if my world is spinning in the right direction, there are the classifications of species, the deviation, the hair styles, the confidence in chosen groove, or rut, that he finds himself in, with all angles tightened up around his throat until no more songs can come out, like a little song bird taken out of his natural comfort and chained to a gate in the studio, no more songs, nothing unique, all just flat jokes and poor ambitions. How can I contradict? Where is my trajectory when I need it the most?