1972, a summer day in Brooklyn; He adjusted the strings on his guitar while your legs rested on his lap. You were distracted by the lyrics of your new poetry and the sound of the latest jazz collection you had bought, a rare collection that only Barou knew how to find in stores for you.

The sun's rays came through the window and curtain. The sofa mattresses were more comfortable than normal, perhaps because it was Saturday. Your lover was already used to hearing your beautiful voice sing or hum Lou Reed; You never stopped after meeting her... Not to mention him, who after buying a new electric guitar accompanied you in your singing. He was more distracted by you than by his band.

White feathers in your hair adorned your head, and a little on Barou's clothes. He caressed your feet and turned his head to look at you. “Can you bring my pills, babe?” His voice was deep and hoarse, a lullaby for a baby like you.

Amphetamines and marijuana, the inspiration for your poems, since your addiction was him.