Should you want to escape but there is nowhere to run,
there is a small room somewhere in the cosmos,
where sorrow is absolutely weightless.
That's the home of homelessness,
where a wicked step-mother keeps
caressing you constantly.
Tonight nothing seems to be like
when things are how they should be.
The Moon is slowly walking on the rooftop,
dragging my heart with a string behind him.
You won't be disturbed nor unsettled by it,
anyone can just sink into it:
it's just like mainstream music
that can be consumed safely without condoms.
But nothingness is no idyllic condition,
only some animals are having lazy sex out there
and somehow my instincts are telling me:
I had better migrate into myself and stay there.
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