twelfth cycling trip

In my dream I was in Brazil. Zoli was holding my hand, and sometimes he put his head on my shoulder. I saw many birds, but this time they weren’t frightening. The sea was constantly surging beneath us; I didn’t even have to tell it, it did it by itself. I checked our pocket: we didn’t have a penny left. We couldn’t afford a bicycle, I had to steal that too. We went to a church too, where a black priest was preaching that those who get on the bicycle are actually crucified. It is clear to the Holy Spirit looking from above that cyclists speed up because they rush towards him, towards the heavenly love; in the eyes of the stupid bystanders, cyclist are simply miserable fellows who can’t afford a car, dummies who fly themselves with the sweat of their faces and the strength of their heartache. Zoli says God is good, he will help us. When he stepped to the shore, I started taking notes, so I would have my memories. But Zoli threw me onto a flowery meadow, and he said: leave it, just love me forever.