and then a mix of woodchips and of coffee beans.
after that, of honey suckle, but only if you breathed in deep.
and now it smells like a fine day to leave the windows open
and let the air rustle the curtains
in the heat.
The quiet lies - we don't need to talk about it anymore Don't need to figure out the truth Don't need to look inside our heads and in our hearts…
I was wrong.
Everytime someone died. color and breath, the fast unfurl of carbon away from death plants that rise and grow, strange citybomb beneath…