Get out of my blood, salamander | I can't seem to blow off enough steam to get you out of my head
Soul cycle you to death, run you out of my blood to San Pedro
And yet, everywhere I go, it seems there you are
And there I am
Something metaphysical
Like a view of the sea on a summer day on the most perfect winding road taken in from the car window
A thing perfect, and ready to become a part of the texture of the fabric of something more ethereal
Like Mount Olympus, where Zeus sent Athena and the rest of the immortals to play