Lights out - (To Kitty with love)

Try to postpone watercolours that will appear on the surface of someone that won't remain quiet and silent.

Someone's looking at glasses choosing sugar on some unfulfilled powder that will become an inner spirit.

- Was willst du machen?

- Was hast du verstehen?

A pen's being filled on someone that tries its best effort to enter on other dominions, light's the source on which treasures are multiplied, becoming part of an endless void of wonder, the stars gaze meticulously at the sky in search of an umbrella's that's being left on the decay of boredom.

Another gulp of fresh water and the sanity's assassin's being put in dark dungeons.

Silhouettes are being put aside and suddenly the laughter's something to be quietly provided.

Hats and cigarettes makes the sun and earth move towards infinity, smokes are being passed on, nurture's at stake, the pen moves quietly into the sweet sound of silence.

Your hand around my throat, girls are whispering softly into my ears.

Lost smiles endure the tenderness of something to behold in its dark atmosphere.

Rain's falling down and one doesn't know where to go.

Ink's passing by and the dangers are being put to shreds.

Seeing the inside, one can marvel at the outside.

Hair's soft and deranged. the strangeness appears when nobody's there.

I remember the empty words of quietude.

Being quiet and still isn't merely some spirit that won't endure.

Horses appear from nowhere.

An huge city appear out of the blue with lots of buildings moving from one place to another, the boats sink into the stillness of water that converge into tiny spaces of wonder.

Mirroring the city from above, the green embraces quietly the sea on a silent whisper of nothingness, the treasure's at stake, when the lost men arrive at shore.

Wood's screaming loudly, when all the particles remain closed on themselves.

Black and white scenarios give endless ways towards the streets that pave the earth on a similar way.

The smile's being on a transparent way of crowds that aren't special at all.

The flute passes on a mournful journey that will appear on someone else's ribbons, stones mixed with ancient clouds of whispers to come.

Palaces are being built and no one knows what for.

Cries on a quiet morning are something to rely on and to escape into unshattered lands.

A child's speaking loud as the emptyness and tiredness of a mother is something to harbour on.

Pianos throughout the sky, soft on clouds that will rise and rise at a colourful event.