I. Continued.

Magenta. [drunk] It's my unconditional that's universal!

Blue. Drown, you fool.

II. On a cloud.

Red. Ah, he wakes up.

M. Normally at this height I only see the earth,
Yet I see them crawling like ants on the ground
Or workers strolling a street seen from a rooftop
-- Maybe I am dreaming.

B. You need not see them below.
To be fair, to sing and ramble like you did there
You'll have to observe them and draw some repertoires
To elevate your soul, right? Like oil floating on water.

And you said about discarding the sympathy.
Did you by chance mean empathy instead?

M. No, I've never felt anything near empathy in my life.
I don't have to exaggerate about this. And I'm proud of it.
And I'll assert on diminishing the remaining tendency
To understand the others' feelings.

See those dots moving from a cell to cell.
What's so interesting about them?
Flies hover above a dead pigeon.
A man passing by sees it, and reminds himself
Of a possible discomfort, not what each fly thinks
Or why they appear hideous and make dysgenic acts
And continue their lives in the system in the first place.
If he is curious, he'd read a book on entomology.
But for me, it'd as pointless as a botched therapy session.

R. Insecticiders are not psychopaths.

B. Maybe I've lived in much difference surroundings
With more pleasant air and substances.
I can invite you guys to my home
For you to relieve yourselves.

M. Thank you, but here too is okay.
I want this cloud to stay this altitude
Like a sweet aligned dream, where
I can think of him forever.

B. Yet the wind blows.

R. But to where?