I blind, absurd symphony of horns caught in a jam, even the screams of the insane drivers. It's a delightful mess, strangely warm. I think that's why I love my chaos in the world turns, and finally found my balance. While
R. tuned the strings of his old guitar I ran away to the corner coffee shop, as (almost) every day. I order a coffee, light a cigarette, looked through the glass, I sometimes get lost in whimsical strokes of raindrops sliding down its surface, sometimes scribbling on a napkin wayward strokes yet. A boy of about fourteen or fifteen years I watch from the other side of the bar. There's been gone almost all summer. It is still a child. Did not leaveseeking only memories behind glass and in their own eyes. Among plastic dolls, plastic exchanged words. Flees, or corrompiéndote end up with all this shit, you end up thanking four currencies touched, thanked thanked for things they never deserve. Living behind a bar. Just like your parents. Or mine. Or me.
The rain makes the rock sound more authentic. Or rather, that Pink Floyd float in the air in a perfect mix, as if he had found his natural habitat, sigh: ')
A song that is September, fall for someone who is (and yes, you know who you are, monicreque feathers: P)
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