Magic in this afternoon. 

It happens, it happens sometimes. 

When you can gaze through satellites until four in the morning

and sleep in a moment of desire, all through the mute day of stage dolls. 

Paintings were in my soul when I wake up.  

Thought of making a burned log by colours of dancing skirts. 

But no travelled trees in my city, 

they don’t like to show the assimilation of quivering endings.

They lack so much of a life that they need to have purple colours and metallic mechanisms; always in front of their eyes. 

Ended up with a shitty canvas of clothless people with antenna over their heads. 

And they say why whiskey makes people the horny astronaut. 

After that course of alcohol…i was making things again, 

I could hear lullabies of hopes for people who can slouch through the life of mediocrity,

in search of a ignited tree for their cremation.

…………………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Google.