The season is Spring. The birth of the Sun transfixes our entities, latches us onto the infinite cycle of seasons. Digitalis Purpurea blossoms. She is the queen of wildflowers, a favourite to the honeybees. Had to lick. Couldn’t resist.

Falling backwards into the multiverse, the membranes of past, future and present feeds in my veins. Mind in retrograde. A swift contraction of the heart — it’s impossible to breathe in its clutches. Rhythm deranging like a drunken guitar riff. Death on the tip of my tongue and life on my fingertips. Forever trapped in Limbo through a kiss.