There’s a strange kind of surrealism in seeing a city with yellow blurred lampposts and cages with little bit of green sea.
There’s a embarrassment; every time people go for metaphors when the reality is banging his heads on the doors.
There’s a lack of evolvement in every celebrated success story of a person who either don’t know how to die in his creation or don’t know about the death in continuity.
There was love in every evening when a homeless person got a cigarette from headless rebels.
But you never noticed these in your addiction to speed through the garrulous winds.
You never felt the sensations in your perseverance to make people afraid of your dumbness.
Photograph: Gabe Johansson.