The world is such a confusing face. Nothing is what it seems … such an overused phrase…as old as time… but always correct. Time doesn’t change anything. It does not make something correct incorrect… or vice versa. "I believe we are to blame" she said staring fixed at the moon. He just saw her… he had been in that bench some months before. "I DESIRE" he thought… but just not enough… The grass slowly grew so soflty no one could hear it… while a summer sent flooded the park. The city lights made everything brighter… everything prettier. Maybe she is like those who are distracted by shiny objects.
Who knows.

From night to dawn to dawn to dusk.
Sunset… Sunrise

Wake up pretty face … the bus is gonna leave you again
Water cleans the outside… not the inside

Take the car… take the bus… you are big now… just every parents dream. A smart boy in the university.
Who writes and sings
Who cries and cuts
Who stabs and wounds
And paints portraits to later throw them to the garbage.

The garbage … what a stinky place.

They pick the notebook, they pick the pen they think and think. The inspiration has run dry…just for now. Silence.

His brother likes better his writing when its not overdone
She notices no difference they are just both equally great. Amazed dazzled and confused
she cries again at the news. Yes the world is still old and unfair she knows that very well. A thousand lives she has lived a million stories in her skin. Her eyes are old…her hair is still not grey. If she has gained knowledge, she is still missing wisdom.

Who is to blame when the show is done?
Where do the lines run? They hide under the seats. They hide behind the curtains. Behind a locked door with no key. If there is no key… there is no lock. Nothing worth the fight is behind a locked door with no key.

Do we have a price since we are born? A huge supermarket where one enters and leaves. Decides what is worth to buy and what HE THINKS its ROTTEN inside. But in every red apple there is a worm. The sin the sin the sin!
We sink our teeth harder and harder on the meat.
Lust from love…Love from Lust

The stars rise once again. She picks up a paper with 6 months old ink that reads "La memoire d'une vie, la pensée d'un nouveau jour, et je me demande si les étoiles vont être égal?" She had asked that.
Mais oui! Les étoiles ne sont pas égales. She knew the answer before even asking the question.

Look yourself in a mirror. What do you see?
A savior! A warrior! A symbolic and meaningful
Piece of shit.
It is just NOT worth the FIGHT!
So much people adore that piece of shit. For them, the shit is fun.
Messy messy mess. See under your messy bed… you’ll see her soul. Dirty and old… with memories forgotten under the bed. Her heart is rusted. Nobody has used it in a long long time. Like that bicycle you used when you were just a kid that your parents save as a warm nice innocent memory. There is ALWAYS something…"better"…

Fuck her then! What are you so afraid of?... The door is locked the windows are closed its hot and humid, last days of summer. The sun is just setting down. Oh! Yes, to even things up, the girl is in her house thinking about you. But oh well! That’s not your problem is it? You wash your hands and everything around you is clean. But its filthy its humid and wet. Your bed has a stain of blood on it now. Guess who knocks the door.
She was never enough for you wasn’t she?
Think before you act
Think before you talk
Think before you write
The ironies of life… you told me it was better
to wear my brains…
It doesn’t seem as you followed your own advice this time.
Now we are all filthy and dirty rolling on a bed that has lost its virginity.
Eating chocolate off its sheets
She’s been there before, on a windy February in the mountains.
That’s just some old memory.

She’ll cry again tonight, don’t worry about that.
Hope he has peace of mind.
Nothing beats a warm hot peace of mind…
Oh! The wind blows so cold now.

One thing over the other. She needs to get it out of her system. "Don’t do anything stupid." The words have stayed with her… through this night. Such an egocentric drama queen, so fixed on herself she admits it with pride. But someone is pulling her hair now.

And he, well he. He is as mysterious as the clouds in the night sky. Indecision, doubt, darkness, and self-control. We might find him dead one day. He writes and cries, and cries and writes. And practices self-inflicted surgeries in his arm; reopening the wounds. His skin is used… just like the skin in her thighs.

Used. Filthy. Dirty. Used.
They are all like that, WE are ALL like that. Not even water will bath them clean now.
They are SO fucked up!
But it’s a secret. SHHH… A very well kept secret. The scorn of society must be kept secret.
The things that ARE NOT WORTH THE FIGHT are kept secret!!!
SHHH Silence Take a breath.

Maybe, JUST MAYBE, they’ll sleep tonight.