"Imagine", a poet tells me,
"My head is a sort of funeral chariot
I feel death approaching in my temple
Brahma's leg is angularly stuck in my throat
No medicine helps
Jump out the window whispers the spell of grim reaper
Jump in front of a car
Or try on a new suit,
Drink some alcohol
And take to the streets to look for a wife.
"Two roads," the poet tells me, "Two roads lead to a highway: one's blue, one's green; one's covered with feathers, the otherone is simply covered, whether you like or not, drink some nitroglycerin, where does this road lead," asks the poet.