"Moving in melancholia”

In the underwater room they do not drink champagne on their parties.
They drink poison from a sea-urchin.
The queen of the bal is dancing with a moray.
A crab lives in my eye.

I have moved in to my room.
It’s not cold here. No blue is coming through the window glass.
At first I am hit by “moving in melancholia”, but there is a medicine for that in other rooms of this building. Friends and tea.
And Nina Simone.
I just throw everything out on the floor, probably it will climb up the wall by itself. Organically to the roof.
Coues it is a high roof, but not like Scotland, there you where supposed to have a bal in your room.
My room, my own home. My own world.
Since last I have cheered room with ugly Italians, curious Americans. A fat rat.
A friendly Greek. And then I lived with my grandfather in a castle (a house). It was nice, but I did not have time to paint him.
I lived a little bit here and there.
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