Behind your back, the sun is hidden. It dawns on your shoulders. You send the rays of your intoxicated morning onto me, on my face, in my eyes. You illuminate me.

Soon, you will pour color. I will stop being black and white. The alcohol has run out, but it didn't save us; despite our expectations; despite our longing for one last liquid night.

The source has dried up just as our worship of changing places with every sip we bring to our lips. The touch of the glass in the temple of gluttony was the ticket for our flights.

It dawns on your shoulders. Soon, I will illuminate entirely. I will take the shape you like, and perhaps then you will clearly distinguish the words that shaped the form you rejected.

[Excerpt from the text on the back cover of the edition]