Crossing industries, towns full of stained crowds…

Eating and speaking like zombies. 

Dogs in my soul and a summer afternoon in my tongue, 

exhausted and tripped over a corpse mountain. 

I need a room…as soon as possible, 

I need drinks in my veins,

I need the inflammation of a woman’s hair. 

We are all linear…I don’t complain this linearity, I don’t complain these finite disappearences, 

but I need my containment. 

I am running against the times of corrupted hallucinations. 

I am and I will.

………………………………………………………………

Photograph: Google.