Some deserted cars passing through, 

with their drunken wheels. 

The night is perfect to write some more sentences,

there’s no one to vacuum clean me now…

those chop chop sounds of knives cutting the leaves of free twigs; have stopped, 

I don’t have to fear the afraids. 

She is sleeping upside down on the half burned mattress,

there’s Hope but there’s destruction. 

The last bit of whiskey is giving me the mockery of a century old hallucination, 

well as long as it takes me through the bounded evenings; 

I am fine with that. 

I am writing about a man who throws stones ahead of him and try to find it afterwards, 

this way he has crossed half of these lands of fancy people.

But one day he throws it and then he never get it back, 

some shining well takes it, 

He dies there without even measuring the deepness of that soggy hole. 

There’s a clock ticking, it’s 3 am…

Now I  am going to be asleep for three days in a row

……………………………………………………………………..

Photograph: Google.