Rome burning,
pillars broken. All those gods, dead. Dead, like the day
Constantine killed them off with Christianity.
Pyre, fire: always, constant.

Some Jungian mind trick; forget YOU, Freud.
The laurel wreaths, the crowns of victory, gone.
I have no idea what any of it meant.
I dreamt of the Boot again the next day.

Also, of: the map of South America, Brazil in green.



More fevers, but non-existant. Just dreams.





My future profession
has never made
more sense than now.