It was me and my bicycle. Morning began on the road nearly undressed, barefoot. The wind passed over over my bare forehead, erasing with calm wisdom the fever of unbearable heat. The awakening of eternal vacation was lulling, so slow that this routine was the only thing to give life any sense of existence. Otherwise, days dripped into each other as pendulously as a sickly syrup, and one’s eyes had a small chance of even opening. On my bicycle, life and blood seemed to pulse. I rode through my almost-secret way, an empty and flat road, assessed naked before the painfully blue eyes of the American sky. Straddling my be-spoked wings, I circled ancient trees that strangled themselves, like suicidal sculptures of Shiva. Their roots emerged violently from the earth, claws claiming their right to protest. Flowers floated around me in unimaginable shades, shocking in their carnal beauty – was it a fever dream, I wonder, or had someone snuck a piece of Paradise on Earth, unnoticed?

It was only at eventide that I was joined by a familiar scent. The harshness of beauty too intense was tempered not by the perfume of night, but by she who reflected the womb that is the moon, enigmatic and miraculous above. Together, M. and I would ride in tropical quiet, shadows against street lamps, complicit against the dormant day and for a moment, suspended in the ether, sailing through the cosmos on two bicycles.