I support the sky with my palms and it is so tired and overflowing with grayness which spills her hair on roofs guarding sighs between venous strikes every awakening and at that moment wind money in my eyes reusable the song of the puddles under gravity of everyday life in which alone my dying in the corners of painted dreams breaks the sun behind the window where I'm still alive and the arrows step into the reflection of sleep (exactly in one) because I hear your voice there ... and now it's time for tea but without sugar ... it hurts
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