There is he around you, leaning with a neck of fond. I watch reflectively, that he is my object. And there is nothing there, around his eyes. No dark circles, no lines crossing, no wrinkles meeting, they watch like a crow’s beads, absorbing shit and more. And he watches me with them, with love, earthly and bald and there, right there. Sitting there with love. And I do not stop it. What about men with longer hands? They are just luckier. He has beads. He doesn’t look elsewhere. I must remain happy for that he promises.