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In my room it is somehow cold not to warm up because the plugs of traffic jams from the crane are colder than the cold tea without sugar empty boxes

The smoke of the last cigarette is very sweet to have lunch, apparently in the morning and if there is nothing more in that, then I will lie down happy as if

And I dream of a warm warm house and I dream that my mother does not cry anymore and I dream that this is not a dream and I have a dream that tomorrow it will be different

Along the street, people gray mercantile thoughts give rise to prices above the television tower, we are fighting with them but they win

As one Russian poet said, there is no choice but there is no choice and now they turned off the light again, I write at random

And I dream of a warm warm house and I dream that my mother does not cry anymore and I dream that this is not a dream and I have a dream that tomorrow it will be different

Again, games for our voices, as if our leaders smoked to live on a bench or starve, but even more a moral crisis will be blocked and the air once sell the country, why pull it and when the sun is disconnected for non-payment, I can safely fall asleep