She is insane, a lunatic. Insane in a lunatic way. Stretching her hands and hanging on the moon. She is swinging on the moon. Sleeping on the moon. Sleeping with the moon. Scarlet red - peace. Peace is crumbling, peace is swarming, scattering. The water. I don't know it. It scares me. I prefer dreaming in white. Ofa, allow me to be your Shakespeare, you would be able to drown me. I love to observe myself. Only to observe myself. Alone. A fiery dress, beneath it - the body - like a leech. The lipstick, so scarlet, so sinful, as though the lips are falling apart. I alternate words - colors: white in the dream, red on the lips. White, red, white, red… Cloths and lips, cloths and lips and so until I'm left without them. I'll come one day to see you. Say: I saw you. And I'll go. If you let me. Why not let me? Without lips, what would you need me for? I'll caress myself. Why not caress myself? When there is noone else to caress me. And I will saturate with colors. I'm getting confused. I don't see anything. I feel. I feel my palms on my thighs. I press them. Strongly. Stronger. I guess this is art. Pressure makes art. Would you allow me to set myself on fire in front of you? This disgusts you? It would smell bad? But it will hurt. It doesn't do to mix conscience with pain. As well as conscience with straw. Because straw is good for the ox, who ruminates it, but conscience is not. This is not a toilet... No, no, no, this is not a toilet.