Volver

Such sweet insanities:
watching ghosts and counting karmas.

I see Chinatown,
I hear the Dead Russian,
I smell the sour stench of a Sunday spent retching.

I know all these things as sure as I know myself.
They loom, mysterious and inconceivable.

What did I see last night?

As the fever passed so did the day;
the Madness did not take hold.

I sipped ginger ale and read Jack.

Big Sur recollections of delirium tremens;
I dream of Himalayan ascetics and Mardou.

I smell asparagus from the night before
and spend a lifetime in hypnagogia.

Well done, Almodóvar.