it is night in my white room. it is night and all the icebergs are drifting past my room, gleaming under a white moon. o, i am so sorry, i did not mean to rhyme. i am, however, oiling my hands. i am oiling my face, my arms, my legs, my chest, my belly and my back as far as i can reach. i am oiling the ladder and every step on it from the bottom upwards all the way to you, my lord. my night song is longing in sweet pain, my comfort remains waiting. where did you go? i peep around the corner of my room and see you there, sitting at the bar, attacking a beer, slurping a waitress. while you are stirring your beer with the finger you just had inside her, you smack your lips, then lick the scum, exhaling words that i have heard from you a million times. the icebergs are softly floating, crashing one more titan on their peaceful drift towards my night, o room.