"THE FACT IS THE FUCK"

A fucking foreigner flying and floating among freckles of fume, and the perfume from the ground is not enough for restoring one's hell. It doesn't smell like yesterday... it doesn't seem so... when the machines stop working and the city shut up its mouth. Your hair made from hemp, your greenish existence that was mine, now, sleeps in the sitting room surrounded by dirty clothes. The bitch is getting nude, lying on my bed waiting for an useful purpose; my eyes closing the walls against the reason. The door shouldn't be open.