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[walkingdistance]

Torturing Gertrude

Red awakens on the hour, she is bleeding. No one there but there is, there is and, and sometimes anything is welcome, sometime there your breath and charming and clean and cleansing.

A seal at a distance matches the white swan and the ivy and Gertrude out of kindness comes and out of rudeness comes and out of selection comes pain. So then the order is something suggesting something and is it disappointing, it is not.

Strangely the sight of reason, the same sight slighter. The sight of an answer is, may not be, strange in everything, if lilies are lily white, if noises and distance and even dust, if they will dirt, Gertrude.

[walkingdistance]

In warm blood

To adjust the joints to each other, coax the limbs, head and torso into winsome poses, then run eyes and hand over these softly dipping vales, relish the pleasure of the shapely curves, turn them or with blood rousing wrench them out of shape. Finally probe into the disciplined walls and make the deepest stata of those thoughts visible through the navel: a panorama open up in the depths of the womb in warm blood lies.

[walkingdistance]

Triptitch

He had never been thought. He had never been ordered. Before breakfast, in the ghostly light before the moon, catching from above a familiar song, a telegram from Tangier.

Slowly blood smiles out of me.

With a yell no one understands, thoughts are suspended in a void. Or other, created, moving in time, the answer would bring why are we our only version.

What would it be without this silence?

[walkingdistance]

Mine and Yours

A drop of water. Immediately dry. A drop of water. Wet still. Slide your fingers across the table, across the blood and over your bruised arms. A drop of water on the table. No, it's not you. And if I could tell you. The hunting sequence, the restless bride, her broken fingernails, her camouflaged disasters. Contours of desire, mine and yours, our cosmetic problems, symmetries hiding in unequal slopes.

Venus smiles. She always does. Left orbit and temple, her optimal profile.

The action sequence from the victim's ward. Sinking frenzy. Intersection of the measurement at shooting range. A labyrinth of languages cloud the impact zone. Haze of unidentified radio signals, inner landscapes, transition area towards Concentration City. Walk. Walk. Not far the de-militarised zone laid bare of hidden bones, toys in our hands. Mine and yours.

Walk. One last summer, our sharp edges, mine and yours, our nails, our chains, your unusual poses, your sleep code. A trinity of murder. A trap for tired planes. Questioning imaginary diseases and daily migrations, on the beach dreams and scripts and dressing and seasonal cannibals.

You lie under my fingers: dismembered but still breathing. You look at me.

In the evening, when an unjust fate digs the girl's hands and the fire gathers over the Old Continent, the city fills the cellars. Dancers of wax and metal dance in the water, children with intact hair play with the latest readings odds. While one in four swept hands the words hissed out of your mouth. Stone chords from the dream inside your ear through the light concrete, painted aluminum and paper, where they are, you ask me again an exact root, a summary of hair, hair, nails and guts, liquids and grease, rings and leather. Cut a hole on the floor and I'll fall in, leave at the end of the game, invent another player, if there is the time. There is, there is. We will teach him everything, everything, everything we can talk and we're good at, we won't think about it never, never, sit and listen, mine and yours.

Now watch. A drop of water. Keep your eye in focus and then again, until you turn to look. Then you will see me.

[walkingdistance]

Sentinel

We saw and grew. We conquered and we butchered.

Melancholy and joy and flickers and falls for sophisticated posers.

Your perfume veils my eyes there in the great naked mirror.

Young white saviours accent the profit and the losses.

In whispers like a wandering ghost the city opens the window to the red sky.

Like a wandering ghost the man and his dream breath their beauty.

Paved with cold cowboys, what bridge have we thrown that everything appears as a shadow of the past?

What dream did we take away?

The moon rises in her old robe behind the sun’s church and no hunter is without his gun.

Like a wild cloud near my heart will go on and see it through the bridge.

The silent ghost. The credulity of your eyes humming our nocturnal breeze.

Either stay. The blood dribbles and trickles and dries.

I watch down the cocaine breeze and the spent smell of copper cables littering the floor.

I shave, carefully. I cut myself a line to the roof and watch down.

Even you, by the concrete bunker on the 52nd floor where no one can see me. And drag a bottle of the brandy you like.

And as I walk helicopters patrol the helpless sky.

We walk to the clouds and to the jungle of abandoned nests.

And with every breath every line blurs and everything dissolves.

[walkingdistance]

Pearls

Like drifting wood. Narrow hips. Liquid eyes. Thick broad shoulders. Rough, pushed hands.

The gray-faced jackal kneels to the prey.

Colors fade as day breaks when towards the docks I meet a young sailor facing the ships. His head empty, empty and calm, a beard, he stops and looks to the ground. His eyes, his hat, his stunned happy expression, continues to walk his puckered lips, trembles towards the window. The ceiling. In darkness.

Dissolve my limbs in the water and rest, rest, but dart away at the road, the road now to hear the sigh and, out of breath, lean against the unsteady gate, cold of steel and foam. The morning haze, the night and then the sunlight, and for a moment, reality. The body lies before everything, before me.

Foam opens like a fan, like waves turns its face in. Shapeless, the sky, the illuminated screen, the fragment of a fulfilled and inert prophecy. Graceful, no more restless, lost no more.

My days depend from a suspension of gestures. My inner voice unrolls slowly. I'm in the dark, I don't see what suits me, what is happening. The stars, veiled clouds, veiled by the fog, by the body of the man, what was used and what discarded. To the birds, alone. Alone and immersed in the haze of time, the soft moss, what remains of the numbness, discreet, relentless hounds in pursuit of the essential part of me. The show is to my benefit. I'm at the window. There is a hat. I take the edge and let it fall. Tumbles, twirls to the ground. Nobody sees it fall but me.

Were you expecting this, these sprinkled strands of bruised flesh, the walks at Vanity Fair, the patient carving of the scalpel, day after electric day, my private organised collection of every atrocity done in my name. There a brain stretches in need. The curious screams. The glass skull, your face, mute and mutilated, waiting for its number, its label, waiting for its place. Waiting for me and my cowboy boots.

In front of the chair a stool mounted on a screw axis. So he was 18. And me. I see the sea that devours the beach and the wet road like a wall of light and on the shore, alone, the laboured breathing of the water. A woman, yes, and between her dead lips gagged with seaweed, faint but vast in my ears, a screaming chasm, the tide towards the tree-lined path, here facing the ships, where your life ends and wakes my body, my body and the light like a wall in my mouth and I see her. Nested in her drowned nails. Sleeping the retiring animal. Decomposing gently.

Your sugar life pales illuminated by red and yellow clouds, when the sun falls behind the hill and the moon rises and finally reaches where I am and I feel cold and tired again. Time flows like a liquid, fifth floor of a white building illuminated by the indirect light of the forest and of the snow-capped mountains. The bed is a swimming pool into unconsciousness, restless in the morning the sun filtered through the shutters. Plastic.

Like drifting wood. Pearls brought to whirl away.

[walkingdistance]

Amethyst

Wrap your bunny in the flag

tie her hair up

feed her in your blood

and watch her walk.

Show her how many things can be done

and what you see

calm her down

and watch her sleep.

Gently wake her up

gently put her down

take her to your room

and watch her lose.

[walkingdistance]

Red

Sitting in the drawing room the fashion guns put on a new face. The sorcerer controls the coast, the birdman goes straight to heaven.

I sleep with my mouth shut and 40 tarots of the same color: queens, sun and charcoal. Your thighs are number 13.

From the wrong side of town enters a red horse, with a black muzzle and an embossed saddle covered with a tiger skin border. The undifferentiated authority of the master inspires who comes to desire a still life.

Falling in love, cutting fingers, spinning minds.

The saddle and the red horse are attributes of a man inspired to destroy. Confidentiality to hostility, disdain or barbarism, the story gets complicated and deepens. Among the shouts, angry men let the night sensational.

Tell me when the work is done, and don't forget. Tell me when the day is through and I'll take you home. And cut the rest of your fingers. And rip what's left of your lips. And pound the loneliest tears off your glorious end.

Here is a voice. Here is a song. Here is a page. Your ghost and his old friends hold a red carnation in each hand.

[walkingdistance]

Stillness Still

I know a place by the wall, hidden from the surrounding houses by the bushes. I play with the sand, lifting it in white swirls with a wooden twig. The waves murmur back with the muffled thunder of the billows.

In the morning air, seagulls soar over the beach. I hear their screams as they hurl into the water like a curved white sword, winding heavily across the sky. Skidding through the dust they converge on me.

One more moment. A minute of silence. The man in the mirror offers a standard model, watery and large eyes, half-closed eyelids. I see him absorbed and locked up in his thoughts, his face drained. Finally with words promised for long, the man talks to the woman. They talk about kits and wall colors.

Stop. I think. Today. Tomorrow. What's the weather like? Pride hits his face. I look in the mirror. I'm looking for the lighter. I find it. The face is long, a golden jaw surmounted by patches of clothes hanging from ropes. The snow. Crazy, some would say, that it snows already.

During the day, through the window, the sun is weak and often hidden behind clouds, cirrus clouds and cumulus clouds, large and soft and long clouds, as long as the sky and sometimes darker, fat and deaf clouds as we see in March. On the mirror there is a crack, thin and black as dirt on a fingernail. The pupils break apart in two dark fragments. Broken like your broken fingers, buried like a landslide of papers. The colors slip away, large and impressive, a suggestion of things waiting, looking at your knuckles on the background of the wall and smell the hands, your thick veins room for future rent.

The sound of the deep water drums, the cold foam against my legs, the currents pushing back deserted streets, one last scent vanishes beyond the hedges.

The time train is a train that pushes its rails forward. The river is a river that carries its banks with it. Empty trailers scattered at the bottom of the floor like a statue. Your face a loop of slowly drifting days. Getting to where it ends, down holy water. Discuss passion and coincidence, wait for the tenderness of blood, wait for Winter.

That's how people like it. Fear today, forget tomorrow.

Lie on your stomach on the slope with your stomach pulling your feet down as you descend the Tropic and that look on your face. Crazy, some would say, that tired and alert emptiness, buried in the world, sitting on the courtyard step. Leaning against the still voices talking somewhere in the house, dozing points between the corridor and the corner.

The machine learns to charge itself. Becomes less stupid. Balanced on the bottom stars thrown at random. Blue. This age-old earth is brick dust, bent down with you, distracted, over this clay book, an antiquity of signs. Everything goes as usual or so at least it appears to all of us. I'm watching you. Trust me. I have vocal cords, pits, arcades, guts, odd numbers, bass chords and claws.

I come in from a rainy Thursday. Crazy, some would say, that I recognize you still.

[walkingdistance]

Crash 313

Raging down, the rescue ship sinks under a full moon. The shadows slide over the day brushing people's heads, the muffled thunder of the sea into the adjacent streets. The waves stir, advancing and retreating on the smoked cinders. The foam reaches the posts of the fences and the splashes of water fill the air with a strong smell of brackish. The huge tail structure dominates the top of the stylised roman villas with its dull geometric precision, its stabilisers filling one side of the estuary.

Crawling all numbers in and out and why don't you come, today, is it time to? The neighbours down say it, feel it, even I don't see it. You do much for me and you do so much for yourself and it's only right that I get busy for you, acting, not putting down points, I don't remember the time you would imagine me in your calendar. And if I leave and you can't find me, tell me I'm not doing well. The morning train, always the same, I hear it from my bed. It is the same. It is becoming the same.

I go down to the beach chasing air currents behind the dunes, everywhere flocks of wild birds cross the strait: geese, mallards and harlequin ducks. A colony of seagulls gather around the immense rusted wings, takes off in the muddy swamps, in the marshes. In front of me, on the red surface of the sea, a bridge collapsed. It lies like a drowned sorrel at the entrance to the strait, entrenching itself over the never recovered bodies. I move in a darkness made of flesh. The last gardens give way to the uncultivated land. The channels slowly drain between the hills and the sand. At dawn the relic hunters return, hands wrapped in makeshift bandages, dragging their loot. They see me and greet me. I believed I wished that you could see me.

Spikes through her face and from side to side, in the eight high abandoned building, the midnight lamp lit twenty-four seven. Nosedive to your next life in seconds. Sling jaw shot out the window and cut reasons, remorse, hooks, chains, bleed shackles. Winding to hell, tossing out punchlines. The city sleeps, a drowned giant on its back, its bones curved in the shadows. The bells ring in chorus, middle-aged women laugh with boys playing abandoned wars. There is a girl, with her mouth open, her left shoe slipped sideways on a bench, she bends down, breathes. People at the doors, sitting just inside the house; they talk to each other from a distance, shouting. A confused little girl holds a key in her hand and looks around. She looks at the sea, the ring of the bay and the horizon. Her lips smile, her eyes smile as green as bile in a sea of ​porcelain, fixed beyond the approaching debris.

The houses framed between the wet concrete courtyards. Offshore, the deep abysses of the open sea run over the submerged harbour, isolated spiers cut through the wave crests. I remain to observe the waves. Skeletal frames of the dead turbine cores cut the foam. The luminous ridges cast a pale light on the clouds that run high, carried by the dark wind, and cover the hands with waxy splendor. I run to the end of the street, while one last glimmer of water is shipwrecked in the sky, behind the church spire. The grass on the lawns, withered by the July heat, moves in the strong sunlight, tracing rainbows in the clear air. Motionless since early spring storms, the dust of the long summer rests among the wooden fences and fire hydrants. Ahead of me the road curves, the chalk promontory, covered with a cloak of green clods, stands out against the clear sky. Scan the sea, white houses on the water like an island necropolis. The golden mist blurs the day, the wind swells the sails. I go down to the beach and walk barefoot on the damp sand. Then the fog clears the beach and I stroll around the piles of seaweed with a stick. I look at the old bodies of the sailors, half asleep on the chairs of the bar, around cups of cold black coffee.

Feeling the wind fall, the birds disappear. Black coffee in the stomach and the directions in which you can go and those in which you cannot go and go anyway, no matter how or why and with whom, but go ahead, look for a chain and put it around her neck and then scream and laugh and grind her fists against the gravel, crunch her along the edge of the boats. Through her wrinkled cheeks and the glistening dark bleeding hands, gathered in a loop of nylon you hold between her knees. I keep my eye before that gesture. She rains. The distant siren smiles. I look at your still frame and I want to stay.

[walkingdistance]

Letting Go While Holding On

Ophelia looks over the shoulder with her morning smile. Curtains cover the painted sky, a metal leaf placed on the windowsill and dressed in Bev’s clothes. The beach drives her away.

Hendecasyllables of midday rain, cross thorns, she dreams strange dreams. It finally arrives. It is raining. Bev comes dripping. She stops short at Redpoint, pours herself over a paperweight with a flower inside, laid on the table with a single topic. Estranged, her clothes fall. She reads about travel, dividends, discoveries. Shaves, eats little, doesn't sleep. 

With the sun smeared through the blinds Ophelia writes, studies the maps, corrects to crystal clear. Walking through the zero hour fires burn crashing into the wind. Their fingers nest. Red, at the other end of the cindered island, looks taller and lost in her smile, her black infected hand picks remains. That happens with time and it's been awhile. She is painted gold.

I've been sitting boiling in my half filled cup, David. I just need to know. Is it time to pack things up, say goodbyes, sink in the mud your pighead-on-a-stick clouded mind, you can't see too far, even long Sally comes smothering. Hear! Too much. Hear! Everything's forgotten, every human touch. David, I just need to know.

And you, with your beautifully offended face and your gilded curls, are you here just to meet me?

The hour does not pass in vain. Ophelia is curious and insecure, the work at Pan Am has made her indecisive, distracted. Spying from above, I'm just guessing, changing color, spinning yarn, switching pace.

The beach at Redpoint is still, grey desire and the sound of thunder through every burst of light. Bev smiles in her push-up bra. She looks out mad, a black tree blocks her way to the other shore.

We are wise. And honest. And reasonable. That's how we are. Everywhere is calm headache gray.

Red taps on the boat, glances over to the baroque villa at the other end of the headland. I dressed you in my clothes. It feels good to know you're mine.

for David

[walkingdistance]

Doll vs. Doll

Red pokes her lips out. Listening in the wind she bends down by the harbour and shivers with the black straw hat on her fingers. Hiding her nails, her bony arms over the seaweed-covered rocks, nervously holds her sister's hand. Silent with her sad eyes cast down, Bev lifts her head up, uneasy, puts her feet on the board, the sweat on her lips marks the shades of unrepeatable messages leaking into her mouth. 

The boat sets out.

Running up and down with blood in her hair, cabins in the rain one after another with shoes too tight to walk on. Faces slip away, fade into the foam and the gold of the sun. To be close, to look low on the eastern horizon, the sleepy summer camps at midnight.

Red pokes her lips out. Bev, her easy pillow, prides her face. Then comes morning.

Bev heads out for the steep hills, anything but greatness reaching the edge of town, she made it. Red closes her fingers around a binocular. Always making the same mistakes, she never changes.

Dreams of houses burning, unannounced and new. Pulling the weight of knowing another day, calling her name, blood still fresh on the tip of her nose.

The lives we are making through the lies and the hating and all the right feelings. You have got the kind of thing I should run from.

Red pokes her lips out. She sits up on the bed and looks at the black jacket hanging on the edge of the closet. Bev lights up a cigarette. They drink milk, undress slowly, shave together in the bathroom. Bev lights up a second cigarette and sits on the bed. Red hugs her body, her nails shoving deep into the sister’s palms.

[walkingdistance]

Hung by the hair

At night.

Tall and massive wooden shelves, full of books and paper, rise in the darkness and close around the scene in a circle.

On the right a dark opening. The gun on the bedside table is tightly wrapped in white paper.

My bare feet lay in the middle of the hunting.

A naked boy is lying on a table over a Flanders tablecloth. One end of the table is set with a napkin, salt shaker, glass, fork, knife. The boy turns slowly, sits on the edge of the table with his toes outstretched touching the ground. The boy is hung by his hair.

In the center, a woman is tied naked on a stool. She has a bright golden mask on her face. A muttering is heard from under the mask as she shivers.

The bodies are illuminated by the fragile light of three consumed candles.

From the mask come words, pronounced with enormous effort.

The wind is drumming against the only window.

Your guilt makes no difference as we swim through the night, between the screaming moon and the grass. The rain won't wash away the pale green of your eyes.

[walkingdistance]

Head Over Heels

A cigarette still, your eyelids flap their beats. Pushing my words into your bones, my toes into your mouth, the empty cans piled up in a pit. A plan to sweep thru the last days of Summer, you and your vigilant focus.

This is my card, my job and this is my name. Yes, my name.

Cadillacs racing to get back to the cold house. Exquisite your face, the way that you talk, every drop of rain.

At twelve I wake up with a sleepy leg and the word med pounding in my head with a tickling voodoo. A skinny soldier and a broken arm, my sassy girl, Caribbeans in the viewfinder. Riots begin at the market square where a sprawling of shoppers stare at displays. Pushing a pattern of worshipping at knocked down prices, Electric Lotus and I’m head over heels.

I watch as you walk up the beach. Dipping into your charm, elbow by elbow, step by step, watching me.

Did you understand?

In the hall, between a doughnut and a sip of coke, listing reasons why the job at the burger’s line sucks. Rolling dice and eyes, aligning the count, no regret, no anger. I play with your chin, tie knots around you. Laying on my back, your elbows clear over my knees, our splintered fingers a remake of Clouds Come Cotton.

The sky finally a painting.

Carrying your smile, passing the time by the sea. Fishing. Looking for a earthworm in the crumbly soil, stuffed it in bulk in your trouser's pocket. When the wind blows, it falls on the thread, soaked in a delicate cord of salt.

Your white skeleton, your bony fingers when defused we enter ShadowBar.

Did you understand?

[walkingdistance]

First kiss on the moon

Name after name after name, dancing too close, leaning on the wooden gates, first kiss on the moon.

The tide hits. I have begun at ten minutes past eleven and retrace sixty minutes.

Blood runs like water through the cracked walls.

Astounded in the melted snow shivered wind formations crumble drifting before I know.

You separate the dark from the dark, the trees buck from the quake, I know you do not know

all I want to do as through complicity forgot, you are the main clown now, the new thing.

To walk is to learn, talking in tongue, a band of light across a blade of grass, when it never by a single gesture.

The seasonal demand cycle, the nocturnal pulse, the front-run engaging downward from talent downcast, every torrent burns.

Here, in the rain, she comes out of her cage, spider in the flat air. Walls, plants, kids and games play in the sun, run in the rain. Days fading, the geometry of mine, in black solid western language.

Behind her long arms, the girl in the straw hat stands in the red, her marquee here under the ballroom, trading crypto.

What happens when you're wrong, when coursing through the cables laid for the candles and beats and tender, blue like the sky.

Ms. Greenhouse takes a drag of her cigarette and smiles away sweetly, polytiene flowers on her waterproof cornrows.

I wrap myself in your blood, all that is missing we'll not know, first kiss on the moon.

[walkingdistance]

What Am I Doing With You?

It's lunch time. What time is it? Lie down on the slope, pull off Capricorn and I miss you. Alone in the corners of the house, deserted in my shuttle, yet fearless, you look beautiful in my bed.

Memories fuse like shattered glass. Our sun turns our silhouettes to goodnight again.

And it rained in the car on the return highways through the deep impression of being there. That look. That voice. That emptiness. Waiting for dawn, counting miles and days, your shorter routes over desolate streets I walk beside you: tough, solid, violent. With only one argument. Concrete and plastic. I know that feeling.

You.

Quiet. Surprised. Out of breath. Pleased. Cold. Shivering. Peaceful. Tangible. Soft. Curled up. Crumbly like fried leather. Sitting, sleepy around in idleness, wonderfully swerving on returning. No entry, no address, no passport. And those russian eyes.

Ash blown down from empty sleeves.

Stop. You do not need me. What am I doing with you?

The girl turns from below and looks at the curious boy who spies on her from above. He has his hands dropped on his trousers curled up on his knees, his eyes open, his hair full of straw. The girl has a wet face. She pulls her skirt down and tidies herself up, taking her time, a cry of anger breaks on her throat and would you like to tell the boy, that it's not good, it's not really good for him. What's this. What am I doing with you?

He stands there, looking at her, and he doesn't even see the man who leaps up on her and disappears to the side of the scene, where we don't see him anymore.

She takes him by the waist, as far as he comes from underneath, shakes and shakes him, but the boy stares and does not take his eyes off except to look at her hands, on her knees and eyes, a little ashamed, a little alarmed, a little amused, a leather belt wrapped around his knuckles.

And he laughs, finally, and the girl feels relieved because she has found a curious accomplice and that she will not open her mouth. And when they are all there to eat he will look at the plate, as always and why he is not allowed to talk and yes, his father does, he tells stories and laughs and drinks wine, but he is not a kid like him and her, and all those times when he takes the girls into the barn and locks himself in, and she yeah, spying and laughing, with the other sister, and the younger brothers know it's all right, even if they don't know well what.

But now a boy has it too and he will not go and tell his father very soon, but to his sisters yes, as soon as possible, and he already has a whole speech and many things to show.

Only that was not planned, that the brother swooped down on the spot right at the right time, this will not tell anyone and least of all to the sisters. And now what am I doing with you, eh, Francesco? What am I doing?

He laughs as he has already promised, he won't say anything also because he, yes, he will take it apart and tell him you, you haven't seen anything, haven't you? And he, yes, of course he didn't really see her boyfriend, but he sees him now.

I leave a paper streak against the sky, fragments of ice eroded by the sea and lagoons, eyes in my eyes. Bullets in the water, blood in my hands.

My sleepless father.

I stay with the neighbours. Outside the door another door stares at an empty Esquire. I have almost forgotten everything. I judge you simply, I get to where it ends, down there, your holy water and your ADHD. Then, once the wings have been cut out I put your gracious neck in between my hands. And squeeze.

[walkingdistance]

And Nothing Else

I am back home. I put away my watch, took a shower, rinsed my hair, and walked naked to the bedroom. The lights are completely off throughout the house; only a blade of light from outside the window tells me that you are there. You are sleeping on my spot, on the left side, the profile of your face barely touching the pillow as your cheek lays lightly on the mattress. Your mouth half open bubbles droplets of air exploding in minute sparks by the dark ambiance of the room, infecting the thick shadows. When you exhale a faint sheet of sound scatters against my face. I pick that sound, sit right near you and run my fingers through your dark straight hair and onto your collar. Slowly. A stack of steel needles lies inorderly on the desk; each hole an open wound around your nipple: sordid and obscene, wet and beautiful. You don’t move: your eyes closed, your cheeks smile away riding your dream, flick lazily, rebound, lay over the embroidered white sheets, smiling in your sleep an inch from me. I stay there silent thinking of you and of these weeks past. And I don’t know what to say. A feeling is floating in the air between me and you, like a ghost that lurks in between our bodies, a murmur of agreement about who we are and what we do. We bubble against each other. And I know that you can’t hear me. Yet while those bubbles break between your lips and my fingers, I feel that I don’t need to say or do anything. All that matters is to stay there and cover you with my hands. With my darkness and with my body. And nothing else.