My Gothic fire,  my tears of high emotion, my crimson shine  reddening these teardrops.  As if teary wax of blood seep from the flames of my eyes!  They dry to a still on my face; the haunting memories forever visible.

My Gothic heart afire within my sea of tears. Wrapped in thorny vines,  and dangling by such. The teary waves above  in my eyes are turbulent  and the emotional winds lashing.  

I carry Tarkovsky's ear in my pocket, still listening to the rain of Stalker, while the rest of his body evaporates in memory like a priest who lost his faith but not his habit. I carry Wong Kar-wai's eyelids in my chest, always late,...