Nobody knows when I was born.
I don’t know when I was born…and that’s believable.
But as I walked down the road and I saw some homeless men trying to choose the better cube in the pavement to sleep on,
I thought I need to know that to live life with a hearable sound.
I am trying to find it now by closing all the windows in this egoistic afternoon…
There’s a sky outside, there’s a bar outside named after a forgotten guitarist…
they invite the death there… every night.
And here I am stabbing knives all over my stone walls to find that seed of psychedelic opening.
It’s nowhere. The lady downstairs has started to drink that awful whiskey and making meats for street dogs…
It’s nowhere. I will never know when I was born.
Well I have some blank pages(I despise those who use pages for some mere informations.),I know how to use them to plant this shortcoming of mine.
But first I need to visit that bar for a bottle of cheap whiskey and I need to meet their star guest who comes every night
to make people forget their many births and many deaths of the past and most importantly to give them the music for their funeral…
That envious music of fire sheets and snow hats.

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Photograph: Google.