On a slow Sunday afternoon,

in reality, i had made myself amoeba-shaped pizzas, and a rose-orange drink. I ate them for lunch, for dinner, for every demonic plesiosaur who urinated in chlorinated water, happily for democracy, and freedom to hate crazy people like you.

Ah, how i was only an amateur, dabbling in life, forced puberty at 13, watched porno flicks at 12, had a cat, lost it, had another, father threw it away, but it came back a month after, and on a slow Sunday afternoon, in reality, i tried to bake myself some pizza from the bubbles of yeast and sugar and a cup of flour. A pinch of salt flavoured the dough like a tear does to a comedy.

Perhaps you’re crazy, i can’t relate so go away i like the tomatoes, oh the tomatoes tossed in a pan with extra virgin olive oil and roughly chopped garlic. And the leaves that i picked from the balcony — basil and rosemary; the insanity i’m avoiding from you, could have not made the sauce wonderful.

Because in the future, beyond flying saucers, a plesiosaur will not vote for a democracy.

In reality, you can urinate too.