Noble clouds rehearse raining over the desert of my pill baked mind. My mountainous psyche has been worn down into an everlasting plain by endless storms of malcontent synapses. My spinal cord is a belly dancer. The rain here stops when the books close. My identity is a red umbrella on the streets of Beijing. My identity is a daisy plucked from paradise by my lover with his textured hands. My identity is a bicycle wheel with playing cards stuck in the spokes. Soon the clouds will kill themselves above me, emptying their desperate passion for the old proverbs over my facetious face.