Barn swallow milk

I’m not a smoker, but this one was badly needed. Even if it didn’t do anything, not even a godly catharsis as a symbol for my departure. As a matter of fact, it didn’t last very long either. Not that it matters, it suffices for what it is. 

I have no beer, or anything else, on me. Just a shot of Unicum, but that, I can’t manage. Only a gold-rimmed glass of the goat-horned barn swallow milk could give the… right punch to end it right. So we leave and that’s it. As if the movement of our mass didn’t happen. Or a mass just did happen, and we are still sitting in the front row of those wooden benches, flabbergasted, waiting for the blessing of our favourite clergyman. But even the incense has been burned up and the spiders are back to repair their webs that have been wiped from the faces of the old frescoes. We won’t have to celebrate before tomorrow. Down a couple of beers while the furniture moves its self into their homecoming corners, and the auxiliary verb where it wants to go. Life burps once more and some other clichés come around. Eat a banana and you will see better or where those just carrots.