Here they come again.
With to less light, cold feelings all around, dirty walls and a room where the furniture declares that its yours… but it isn’t anymore.
When the flush is over you find yourself sitting down there, on this unfaithful carpet, your head in your hands on your knees wondering. Wondering about wondering. About you, the weather and what this fucking shit is all about.
This place was shit just from the beginning, but it was my shit. Now.. going and looking forward? Whats about going down. Selling stuff. Laughing about jokes which aren’t jokes and try the hardest shit on this god damn planet.
Or do it like Jay-motherfucking-Z. „after me, there should be no more.“..or, hm „there’s just one rule: I will not lose.“ As he said. Mates.
But our sky is violet, all the day through, our jokes are these who sell you cigarettes or newspapers at the daytime, weed and mdma at night. We are the ones who work twelve hours to get our biggest bill when we stop officaly working and start… you know. Selling.