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Run. We will not hold the land two - we are Titans. The last exhalation is not giving and looking stubbornly by throwing a coat on the sutulous shoulders, baked alien love, and the red hair of naughty copper elastic band tied a tag, shape for the threshold, hoisting the keys on a curved nail in the hallway. Run so easy, overtaking the streams, and knock the bags of passersby.

Run, the subway will pick you up there, and after - the tram is tired. And hearing the palm of the hot mouth inside the rattling container, forget about me, solvent me like a sugar cube in coffee. The last swells of the fire sunset runs on the jacket, and collapses at the feet, the sink ankle in the oven transparent. And after, mixing with a thick crowd, find a time-out in a cigarette pack on a couple of missed minutes in the fight against global hypnosis. Enter the sleepy house where you are not waiting for, and where on the wallpaper roses extended, faded, where darkness and dust, where the place under the roof itself. But this is your coast, your port. There is a calm, it is heard as the walls breathe. And in it, for sixteen blocks to, breathe deeply and greedily, where there is neither me, nor my traces, and the taste of chocolate liqueur, let your larynge will unleash the tight nodes.

Gori. Revive. From the fire ribbon, and the skin of the soot.