The days go like hot breeze in a summer afternoon…
Physically unavailable but mentally always there.
You smoke strong cigarettes and all you get is eggs…eggs…eggs.
A walk along the baked street for a quiet act of pure murder.
Feet on unknown waters and shallow mirrors,
and dusk comes through the gloominess of a parking lot.
Blues…blues…indigo through the evening liquor, you may find crumbled lingeries under the woods of this bed.
The nights, the raw, the rock band for drunkards, the absence for poets…the single dimension for musicians…the paradise for working classes.
What if all of these above particles of a single day is the pearls of your dreams…
what if all of these are made from dirt and you put the first shovel in it.
It’s not poetic to think about all of these when you are in a queue to submit the first pay cheque in your bank.
It’s actually more of a humorous kind.

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Photograph: Google.

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