Sammy was a dolphin inside my head - sociable and intelligent. There, he gallops in the sea of thoughts without restrictions, while compassing its own tail to careen in every directions. He’ll face the east and swim, jumping together with the waves of ideas and memories.  West: illusions turned into his companions as they swiftly zoom through surfs, strong as bricked walls. They are enjoying, laughing continuously, smiling and grinning. And when he heads north, his eyes camouflage in the sparking ocean while hopping in and out of the water. Sea nymphs surround him, they lift him in ecstasy and sprinkle him with bliss as they take a rainbow path that lead him to south. Words echo, south, south, sou-th. A squall appears which splashes heavy tears and agony - a hysteria. Problems welcome him, as they abruptly hug with their unseen embraces widely open.

Sammy was a dolphin inside my head - sociable and intelligent. There, he stayed and never came out.

I had the chance to see him again, but like every single thing before, I wasted it.

I was relaxed, calm, and tranquil. Just letting air travel through my nostrils, freely, while staring at him from afar. Concealed from wall of fawn bricks, I repeatedly stole glances.

He was wearing a plain air force blue loose shirt, black pants, and charcoal rubber shoes - in which laces were untied, and touching the cemented floor.

I don’t know if he was waiting for somebody, since he was just standing there, though a bench is actually positioned inches away from him, which could actually make him comfortable. I guess, he’s waiting for someone. I noticed, the cigar on his left hand: it emits smoke, and the embers were gleaming, and ashes apparently glide through the open space down to the ground. His arms extended, and his fingers tickled the body of the cigarette that eventually made more and more cinders plummet like snowflakes during winter.

I scanned his body, he has a new tattoo, it was a fish, a barracuda. It was bending its body, pointing its tail to the east, and his mouth was ajar, capturing a hook being fastened with a nylon. The tattoo was located on his neck, and string attached to the hook was drawn circling around it.

He was waiting. By and by, he checked his watch, for the time, and would execute a strong sigh. The sound it made reached my ears; mixed with his breathing, snaps, scratches, and moans, I produced a mini-sonata inside my head.

He was choking me to death. His arms were boa constrictors, with their head as his hands clasping tightly on my neck. Beads of sweat ran though my cheeks, pouring down at snail’s pace until they hit his fits. I can hardly pronounce words. Ple-ase.

His hands twisted, exerting more force, as I noticed his nerves crawling, forming like cables. They were erupting, their color coruscated from blue to navy. Afraid. I was afraid. Ple-ase.

His infinity tattoo located inches away from his palms wiggled, as he apply strength again.

Asphyxiated.

No. I thought of things. I gazed upon the constellations, wishing a shooting star will pass. I looked so pathetic that I was relying my fate to an astronomical body.

I continue to hope.

What does he think? Whenever he bathes himself with an icy cold water, in a porcelain tub, amidst with compiling soap bubbles, and drifting rose petals.

What does he think? Whenever he slides shampoo on his moist hair while agitating every strands.

What does he think? What does he think?

When suddenly, he stands up and proceeds to the mirror being surrounded with cobwebs and grimes all over the wooden edges. There, he stares at his reflection. He stares at himself.

What does he think? When tears cascade, flowing on his cheeks, nonstop.

That guy, yes, that guy. He was found dead. Suffocated in water, hugging the mirror with both of his hands.

What did he - what did he think?

As my feet stomped every blades of weeds that resulted for dirt to join my shoes, I abruptly quickened my pace after knowing that the clouds grouped and turned dark. I have nothing to shield myself in being wet. I rarely bring umbrellas for since I think those who bring such are pussies. Nor having a leather jacket. As drizzles came pouring like the sky was bestowing an unlimited thread of pure liquid, I rapidly gestured my hands to safeguard my head while readying the back-portion of my bag which’s water-proof. The rain transformed into a squall, the wind blustered turning the weather a complete disaster, and I have nothing to do but to continue my pace. I am, actually, pathetic. Drenching wet in the middle of the field, staring at nimbus clouds as they resume in giving frustrations: my life is an arousal pity.