the key

it was always walking with her name on it, with the pretty messages, the pretty voice, the great looks, and evertyhing it was open.

always talking about her without saying her name, walking in a lot of air and dust, viewing the buildings feel lonely without her, turning the computer to look for her, looking for that demential way of loving and feeling drifted.

exahusted.

there's a very good feeling, he didn't saw what it would become all that ignites a messanger talk, a cell call, all the words trying to reach and to speak in a way that would get her attention.

tired.

it never knock on his door, it never call him on the phone, never a self inspired mail speech even to know how it was to feel the rain from a far away place, he always on and never on it.

like fog

in a subreal way of life, in the chair of chaos, in the black inside of everything, diggin the hole to hide, to get away... from her mute voice.... with still arms... with no hands.... no eyes.... no heart.

everthing's ruined

there's no help for this hand, for this flower, for this writting.
teher's no heart that can contain his soul and help him to heal...
there is no teacher who can tell him who to undo.

it was a key... he thougt it was going to open...
but not... she was just closing time
closing the needs of love

pushing the bottom to fade again...
like end credits...
like the last scene...
like the look of a dead...
fade to.... nothing
there's a way to become nothing...
and you got the key to do it

he learns a lot in how to be

cold