stream (01)

Romance is not my cup of macchiato (pardon me for recklessly abstaining from using your familyname, Mr. Lipton. I just don’t want to walk down the cliché-stricken idiomatic street). But the letters of a song and its melody won’t let me be, like when I quaff litters of lager thinking it would be able to flush the images of the moon’s reflection flashing in the mirror-like surface of water of the river flowing through my medulla oblongata as it begins to speak in a voice, in that tiny, lachrymose voice … ‘I will never forget the night I took the risk of setting your lips ablaze. Did I tell you yet that I venerate you?’ And the moon replies: ‘Yes. I know.’ ‘But have I told you how much? You’ve been looking at yourself through my surface; I know that ivory-like crust of yours is a dysphoria waiting to be explored, for you to let us see the dazzle, the bewitching light of your glow.’ The moon does not say anything more. So the river, as much as he wants to go astray, doesn’t have a choice but to stay. But he resorts to different forms of mechanisms—deviation, sublimation, distraction, reaction formation, displacement, even sometimes letting its own water boil with the sun. Tic. Until he said ‘I miss the moon and its glow. I wonder if she’s happy now. Will I really be able to know? Can I really see through her?’ Tic. On the radio: There’s a moon asking to stay, long enough for the clouds to fly me away… thus the song goes and it took the river away. How about a joke? How about a high five? ‘How about descending a little? or better yet, take a plunge and swim deep down inside of me?’ Is it the river who’s speaking now? Tic. You know that I’ll always be here to listen. Tic. It’s me. Now I know it’s me. It’s not me when the river spills those maudlin spiels. Look at your own image through me again and see how the shapes of our crescent faces are like two pieces of a heart broken in its meridian part. ‘Stop the flow of the river,’ another said. The river: ‘All right then, I’ll let you be. Just let me say to her that I miss her.’ The river’s gaze turns towards the sky: ‘I…’ Subsequent MRIs also revealed there was no change in the size. The lesion actually measured 0.9cmX1.1cm in diameter so despite she was treated with Bonacriptine, we also got baseline perimetry. So it actually revealed an absolute scotoma involving three quadrants on the left hemisphere. He was starting in Bonacriptine when it hurled his prolactine levels to 65mg per desoliter which was actually in the normal range; upper limit is at about 86. He was advised to a surgery and now the vision is stable at 20-25 minus 2 and the left eye was counting fingers. This was in her insulin maintenance basically maintained on 90 units of insulin in the morning and 55 units of insulin in the afternoon. Who is it? ‘That is not even me.’ Prednisone. Valium. Prozac. Give him a tricyclic. Beep. Bleep. Tic.

xdelax-circa09