For some days something is telling me to not stop wasting anything. 

You see; this crowning existence resonates to the beats of every waste particles of every segregated souls. 

A wasted matchstick, a wasted rain, a wasted supernova…

Unrequited loves, smudging kisses, self loathing oragasms…

Ah! Beautiful, grand; these things. 

You are getting knocked down by every puff of that cloudy feeling, 

and seeing her dancing on the beats of this spiritual evening, 

that’s poetic, that’s style, that’s the gravity of this planet. 

One indolent rain, one utopic balcony and I see the horizon of your Kohl, 

Yeah that’s how it is.