Sweet melancholic bullshit. On your belly, abs, hard ’n sexy. Scarfs pale. No aims anymore. Wasted anything. Being new, reloded, moved to the big big city. Artists, Music, Life. Drunken, pissed, fucked in a doorway. Not shaved, smell of sweat, sexy beard, horny shit. Take it, pussy. It’s not hard to get there, really, it isn’t. But very, very hard to stay there. Hold the balance between fucking, drinking and stay up all night to familydreamers and children, home sweet home and autumn decoration of the ledges.
What if the doorbell rings then, one time, your daughter hurrys to the door and one of the affairs found you, down there between the violet pillows of lavenderfields? Would you be proud of being hold tight by you man? Your woman?

Run, run little thing, hurry up, you’ll miss it otherwise. Forget all the urban legends you heard. Make your own. Start to draw your dreams on paperplanes and show them how to fly. Go, tiny angel, waste yourself till you lost your face and forgot who you are. Ten secounds away from you the big old train of knowing how it was to laugh out of a heart went away. Settle down. Enjoy.