When the mosquitoes have feasted on our flesh,
And the scent of our sweat-still-pouring bodies sobers us,
We'll then know we've reached our destination.

My young-man's metabolism has metastasized
To all aspects of my life. When it's over
You'll see what I have left:
An empty wallet and a rumble in my gut.

It's time to wake up in a lucid state,
and start inventing words to describe our dreams.