A Shaman can spit fire at you, just like the puma and viper out among the mushroom glades of Central Russia, the inky clouds and bewitched djinn and succubi by the waterfall lick and gnash at each other, my only life, remote castles in the forest and the leopard and tiger crawl on the belly, white eyes in a white fog, the demons howl and hiss from the trees, the grave site darkens, the voice has been dead for a very long time, black holes in a black earth, little imps and goblins strangle the light-fissures from the leafy canopy, a family of blue sparrows with watchful gazes, the ever-blooming, unfaded roses dotted in between the stabbing fire ablaze, the dying flames and dying lamps, an orange hue and flickering shadows on your face.