Through brains that aren't doped

Through brains that aren't doped up, only powdered with a gloss and the haughty tone of voices, come thoughts unknown to me, like a steam train out of stories. Phrases even hung out of the windows, worn out by the heat and the raving and the neighbour with his drill. I aim the sparkle of my diamonds at the beautiful pictures, the secrets of the inner world: there's cinnamon with orange, the tea scent of bergamot. Rivers full of chocolate, a breeze that brings the cool. The sun, it seems, is not so fierce in drilling with its stare. A drizzle wets. A lollipop rooster on a stick, the cool. What else, my dear, could you need? What? Just say it! You'll get it all at once, believe me, and those diamonds that pour their streams into the dark will see it all, not risking being misunderstood and wild. The brain, not doped and quiet, will filter out these cries. And all the needless fuss. It'll crumble fears to dust with ease. That's it, good night, my dear.