American plan
And I overflow the table with one hand.
Strange afternoon,
And a desire that has fled far away.
Powder, great confusion, a gray lounge,
In which direction I will kick the
Dust, from my thoughts? And how many mysteries
With the few powers that my condition gives me.
Air a little spoiled,
That window should be wide open.
Ruined cloth,
And the frame is all consumed.
Dust, too much memories, it's better to be deaf
And maybe it's too late to take it off
Dust, from the gears, from the faces of the sages
With the few benefits that my condition gives me.
Do not look for me, you will not recognize me...