Translation: maybe suchlike wind will heal the day of tomorrow, not today – we must leave, go around and be beggars on purpose – everyone with our baggage of misery – few characters on the scene, a dirty plot, and really out of tune improvisation – ambulating to claim for due compensation at the company of weakness – spook in hand, precision fork, a vexil of good claims and excellent intentions – insidious cravings of craft’s profane in search of inguinal solace – in a local blunder in roads not roads of impassable vocation – all dresses of cert wanted reason, tender sticks as usage – the journey begins and restless and becomes a tired race – we’re far as possible, the mundane comforts – instead I imagine the journey of others, or his own, it was like mine, like last year’s one – and going with the randomness then you find the poisoned arrow, the disgust of purity replays as a disc complaining the same song – we miss each other, we see each other, we’re fine, we feel bad, I suffered and I knew, I thought, here’s the train, I’ll see you? – I’ll call you? no – we don’t hear each other, as if I was deafened – it was the most obvious brackets that could open in both’s lives

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