rusted_flower:
out 1
rusted_flower:
out 2
rusted_flower:
out 3
rusted_flower:
out again
rusted_flower:
out again
rusted_flower:
out again
rusted_flower:
where did I leave these and why did I forget?
rusted_flower:
where did I leave these and why did I forget?
rusted_flower:
The bell went to stop the day and he descended into the well of tunnels again, heading towards the time he loves best, the time of opening the door and shutting it all out. The next hours where he can lose himself.
rusted_flower:
The trains pass quickly below the platforms, shaking his feet, making him worry. But he keeps on towards the net day, the next hours of paper turning and bytes of light inside the boxes on the desks. Phones ring past the time of the stock exchange.
rusted_flower:
In his morning prayers, before he takes off his cap, he hopes that there will be no sneers, no bad newspaper reports, no TV banners of police parties that went wrong. Where are the connections that we thought we could build?
rusted_flower:
One asks where are they all going, rushing like old water through the stairways and subway tunnels, before the ascent to the towers towards skies that were full of rain.
rusted_flower:
It is reality that shifts and lets go, behind the feet of workers on the way to the office and descendants of past city memories we didn't dream.