Dissapointed. You expect too much. Are a roadrunner waiting for sights you can’t read properly. Danceing in different rythms, having your own beats, hearing music where the only chours are your own.
You expect too much, like no other. You call it beat of being. Pulse of feeling. Try of more existing. Sharing old, living yet, cancelling the gonna be.

The sidewalks are your mainstreets, essays your little voices out of your head. You start thinking of happiness when someone ask you to think about what you want to be.

You don’t understand all these must haves but dancing in the summer rain while don’t feeling getting more and more wet.

Your best friend is the fear and the joy, the new, your treasure your memories.

But you expect too much. The world isn’t a nice place to be. Anyway. Go on trying. You believe its gonna be better.

It’s people like you citydancer, running along those dark streets feeling alive and home.