It got dark. He entered the mosque. He sat down on a chair. He left the bag full of teapots that he had been dragging along the road for a long time. He stared at the purple sky with white stars on the ceiling. He listened to oriental prayers, accompanied by a snout. He took out a knife and began to peel the skin from his left arm, where there was a tattoo of an ancient girl with a cake of snakes on her head, who fed the sleeping pharaoh with melon and banana and cooled him with a green peacock feather.
A text emerged from the flayed flesh. It wrote about blue crocodiles with white eyes, mating in the green mud, and storks with pencils for beaks and fingers, standing by a lake with snow-capped mountains in the distance, drawing Van Gogh lowering his knife in front of sunflowers and kissing Amy Winehouse on the ear, who, putting down the bottle of purple potion, sang a new rock anthem to the crowd dancing in the thousands of dark mirrors in Dracula's castle.