.
When the sun runs enraged over stilts, his ardour blackens the sky; and turns up the night...donna od gas.
Maybe the night is blind.
Its quicksand in reverse it trundles the blue coffee of Naples, taciturn...
The gods-turntable lit it in the evening of the 200.000 thunderbolts; they did, not the moon.
...Because the night is the niche of the lynx...
With the Medusa.
.
