lovers enter the bedroom, lovers enter the bedroom. lovers, and with them the dreams of lovers (dreams hidden, elusive, buoyant), enter the bedroom. two lovers, one striking the other with desiring eyes, enter the bedroom. two lovers, one of them striking the other with words of longing, the other weeping, enter the bedroom. lovers enter the bedroom, not speaking. on a sunday, in april, a day in which could be nearly be denoted as hypnotic, screamin’ jay turns on the record player, secreting soulful yearning, and hearts beat after it, and the full moon, not long after which lovers dig a hole into each other and burry themselves in it six feet down, so that they will never leave each other, and together their souls will perish with eternity, after which lovers enter the bedroom. lovers, staggering after their hearts like it is a piece of fallen cosmos, enter the bedroom, darning their dangling arteries. lovers enter the bedroom, site of desolation, and part immediately to the field, where they mix star dust, river water, regurgitated owl droppings, cold clay, red roses not yet budded, chocolate, sticky sap from a dying tree, roly-polies, lockets of hair, diamonds, dewy grasses, a pocket watch that one of them inherited when their great-grandfather passed away from a stroke in 1913, eyelashes, light emitted from the milky way, saliva, a piece of lace, dirt, and a package of strawberry seeds in a mason jar and mixed with tears until saturated, afterwards transferring the contents of this jar into a glass test-tube, agitating the glass test-tube with trembling hands for twenty-nine minutes before attempting to persuade the other that they should swallow the mixture; later they smash their eyes shut through three seasons (the last, autumn, withering) in a one-and-a-half-year stretch, whereupon they are sent to the astral-plane, until freed, in each case two more years later. lovers enter the bedroom, with altered mind-sets that itch so bad, fresh from reverie.