I cannot find the way home.
From up here, you look like numbered hotel rooms, identical to each other.
I cross open doors where closed minds dwell, in apnea between clouds and carbon black waters.
I fly over the city, hands that grasps, hands that scratch themselves, stealing the possession of things
which won’t last. Money sneaks in pockets, in stories, in judgements that turn out to be golden like the fake jewelry of a little girl on the phone.
Mine are wings made of paper, that get soaked and sink me, I drown in dull aisles of a nameless motel.
As if you open to someone to make him stay, as if you look at yourself in the mirror alone and naked,
somewhere I can get out of here, It is getting late and we have to follow a slow-living.