The reflection of a white light on stone walls,
the paranoia of a urban continuation.
Like windows,
like a fat man closing the drapes before fucking a whore,
like a vendor counting notes in an empty station,
like a man in between his failures.
I am looking at a shop,
everything feels doable when you are drunk and everything seems done when you are high on your solitude…
I am looking at that shop,
a shop where poetries are in sale…
Everybody is coming and getting verses in kilograms…
I bought worth five bucks.
I have a fear of loosing that shop…it’s so black in darkness.
I have a fear that I have poems worth five bucks…I am dealing with so many murders of souls at such a low price…
The urban life…the freedom suits me…I am made out of gasoline…
Poems made of gasoline.

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Photograph: Nalyvme.