Have you ever been surprised by the dry company carved
By the sound of the rubbing of your soles
On the asphalt of night roads?
I frequently wake up from dynamics in thought,
In the desolate precipice real.
Surrounded by the apnea of u200bu200bsocial smiles and sugar-coated parties.
I shake
Dust residues from the journey.
Or, scruffy, I reject them at industrial rhythms.
In the mirror opaque of a public toilet
I'm looking for an instinctive gesture, epidermal grimaces, crime, illness.
I wring out emotional sewage from myself
And, crippled in my ways and in my mouth, I study like a moray eel .
I have tangled veins, my head razed to the ground
And a mood like nineteen punks in the convents of February.
While I strip away the moments
Offend
My decorum smeared under tons of colliding trains.
We get stuck as best we can.
The least is combustion.

KORREKTUREN ÃœBERMITTELN