Who is lonely and prosperous, buried the end of the world and scattered all his armor?
Humming, shallow singing, that unknown injury, whose voice echoes in the declining and prosperous past.
Those flying years, those madness, those sadness, at a crossroads, the dust settled.
Flowers bloom again and people come and go. If you are destined to be a passer-by, why bother?
That night, I smoked a lot, and the smoke turned into your face. I waved my hand and everything was gone …