Lh Surge And Headache

What I do not ..

you see in the sky that ' high pressure, you feel a strange season? But at night the fog
tells you d 'a breath of God' winter has arrived.
You hear a plane that goes far away? You hear the sound of a piano,
a Mozart tune that trial and error, but the sense of the true is not it?

you feel the courts because of wet meadows in the car to die,
the pale line of old wounds, do not send letters now?
You see the sound of fairy tales off? You know that we are not anymore?
We are not a plane or a plane out of tune, season, or a backyard lawn ...

You know the 'smell of old deserted streets that lead to discoveries, oil and
, frames, chimneys, corroded, in suburbs mysterious, implacable
and rails to no where, beds, camp beds, alcoves for?
You know what color the seats have low clouds and a 'former third-class?

L 'anxiety that gives an endless plain? Feel like me and life,
of an ordinary day, a barren shore? You know that we are nothing?
We are not a road or melancholy, a train or the periphery, we discovered
bank or faded, we are neither a day nor life ...

We are not the dust of a dark corner or a rock pulled into a glass,
the snap of the sun in a wheat field, we, we, we ...
do you strip the sky and the 'high pressure is a second window film,
' s always scream that says slowly:
"We are not, we're not, we are not ..."