We had fun, I was crying like a child, I felt just too good. It couldn’t be true.
The occasional desire of a foreign moment which feels like thousands funny flower birds in the sky filling the air with harmony and well temperatured melodies, colours that sparkle in the wide sea with the white, snow-like sand.
Don’t get killed by the internet, the real fun lies on the street and screams by the pain of having had too much icecream, as a result of that painful stomach-pain with vanilla taste.
Fall came. Around the corner. Didn’t wait a minute. Hurry. He ran. Is quiet a bitch. Was a bit drunken, so he feels warm then and when, still. He isn’t quiet sure where he belongs, has a few friends, but they all die a colourful death, with a great smell of being wet and earthy before falling slippery down to the ground. Noisy children with bloody hands, carrying chestnuts with hats around, showing them mum, not dad, he’s at his secretary’s house, fucking around. He was never good in playing soccer with the kids, not very sporty, but bald, sweatpatches and rich. Since the mother of his kids gave the first brat birth, he didn’t want to sleep with her any more, but the soft, tiny, slim vagina of Jasmin, his Secretary.
Mum loves her children. She doesn’t know she has cancer. Want’s to give her kids, the love of her life, a dog, to hang around with, tell’em their worries, be more outside when the broadband connection comes to the village. She’s so much into the Beatles. Love’s them. Knows every song.
Why must the summer be gone?