Burning bridges down, contemplating constellations with the cruel and fraud stars. Building the roads again with ropes made out of pens, drawing all the shattering, and rephrasing every crack with words and rhythms. With thicker ropes: the skin that got peeled off because of harvesting the scheme of art, rebellion, and self-believed triumph. Love and commit until every single breathing lungs burn into something beautiful because ash is the purest form ever made. Let the wine drips down, mixing with the ichor, and drown in it. With a ticking heart, a living grenade, seize life as if there is no room for language, a fragile one, and life like everything was made for performance art. Just like wine, age and grow well, let the earth feed from the tip of your finger, and compare how bright how mind can be. Paint your organs full of colors, and dream in every grape you plucked. No matter how dim it could be, forced by time to keep on flourishing, littered with razor edges, and cutting starts, there is always madness in love. Effervescence in a wine glass, aspiring and to be aspired, to become as treacherous as a victory, to torturous and mesmerizing as it sounds. Sense the countdown and become inevitable.