It is evening. At a small round table on a sidewalk, under an umbrella advertising pastis, the one who must be the drummer tells me about his lack of timing, that he never knows when to eat. He has a tall coffee in front of him. He shouldn't be drinking. He has been forcing the beat all night.
I recline across a soft couch. It floats above the living room. There is a swing below, perhaps this is a treehouse instead. I feel the heat from a small wood stove, but it is far away. A service bell rings, my time on the couch is up, please deposit another 25 cents for three additional minutes.
I turn, and lead us to the east: step, step, step, step. Something passes from my lips and I taste blood left behind. The rites are observed, where my blood drips roses bloom. This song is in another language. I turn, and lead us to the south: step, step, Abrupt, we stop. I must have stepped on her foot. She is soft when we land on the floor.