Nula

God is a breakfast test, Spring in my lover's trauma, don't I feel blessed, sailing dangerously, with her list of disorders, the troubles start with me, when I refuse to get distressed, this tremendous performance, all makes a sort of sense, howling like a banshee, her complaints grow enormous, big wind through the trees, her risen voice no contest, I try a little metaphor, before she reaches the crest, offer chocolates to see, if the kitchen jukebox roars, will everything fall on me, I grow weak, seek rest, now there is another detour, she suddenly wants to confess, acts like she isn’t born.