It's April, who recreates the underground tour, step by step back through the wet streets. Climbing stairs, light escapes, look in the eyes of those days that follow from a clock, silent in their hands. Reborn on a Sunday, shouting his name, leans toward the distance. Find a shelter, as touching the present, in a regular impact with the rush ...
Lyrics closed my eyes. They
inert wrecked landscape paintings indecipherable.
gestures, as a resigned smile is a thrill.
In them, the voices, which shut them up, are still stunning.
The silence burns in the light of that shadow.
whispered story in the middle of this nothingness where I am. Because life is forgotten.
be practical in the concrete and useful in the unnecessary.
Because living is to believe in a symbol.
The weight that each craving and suffering.
Life appears to me to be always another
.
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