Che La Mia Ferita Sia Mortale

Balcony view, skimming De La Rochefoucauld maxims, Monaco's orange sunset dips behind the water, numbers come and go, art comes and goes. Through the open curtains, a girl lays in a heap on the bed, well asleep. An ashtray contains ten or eleven stubbed out cigarettes. An urge rests beneath my skin: to throw this glass bottle of wine from eight stories high, to scream, to feel the world as my own.