Had it been another night one would certainly fall for this decoy. But this time it’s something different. The whole uproar lasts just for a blink of an eye. A greasy fluid briefly drops on the table and the only thing unveiled in this motion is the ever-present aftertaste. The old terrifying scheme of pity implodes. The subtlety of grey flushes all this fuckery down, destroying the vulgarity of roots which run too deep. Now is tomorrow and tomorrow is never. And the streets SHOULD be this empty.
Had it been another night one would certainly fall for this decoy. Blunt repulsion and the shameful view outside the window. The streets crawling with gals so beautiful. Groins, glands, benches and secretas through springs and falls. Scapegoats and mockery. Yes, these were the good times. But now I’m fucked.
‘Cause what is there to do when there is a face under your skin? What is there to do when the streams start to spiral? And what is there to do when the morns are even colder than the nights?