a box-blue Gauloises and three Euros. before two years. when you were long gone. three euros is not much. the ferryman pig a left. my left eye for the right to know. the opera is over . two years. it's hunting you. still. My lungs crave nicotine. it is cold. very cold. as always. nights in any of these. I stand. and have nothing to say. what can I say? here would be a pat on the shoulder, all the best, the next tip bottle. the fact that i do not know where you are, makes the whole complex. what can I say? when everything is already said . do you hear what I say? You see, what I think? remains when nothing left . folded, folded over the belly. . Nose-bleed then I close my eyes . the thoughts of the notes, the moment the score. the heart is the instrument. what to tell you this . trampled grass under their feet. if everything I've said . dry soil and bark mulch trickle by cold hands. u nd but none of my words reach you . it is cold. there is no color. it's all quiet. it's dark like Poe . and I have nothing to say. I will not stay. There are already enough metaphors powerless. they now have an established bank. in the darkness that has created the light. another illusion, which shows that there is more makes sense, not to speak. the disillusionment gradually robs me of that awareness. no where to run. and I cling to the pain. He is all that is left to me. or not. it is crumbling and distorted in anger in front of my eyes. what is the matter still remains, I do not know. and I will never learn it. any more than what you thought. as the tree pierced through your spine. the n igh t goes on. which can ungewissheit choke me.
I rose bette somewhere where I suspect your hands. two words, thought brave, to die on their way in the darkness. they will never get to you.
and the night goes on .
as always.
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