Autumn -
The bandaged rain turned and left. After making a round of the sleepless city.
That autumn, I went to a recital. A concert hall shut in by dry doors. A cold, cruel pianist seated on a hard chair. There the dark dream rejected by sleep silently handed over all weapons to you. You may arm yourself. Love, love your life.
Outside, the rain smelling of fresh gauze turned another corner to the harbor, from the harbor at twilight to the dark sea, to the world of illusion without stars.
Lips became wet. Soon my hands dried. Goodbye. The woman walked past me and went out. Out the door. A tall man waits for me, getting wet in the rain. To live or to die, with a door between us, we load our guns.
Bless us. Even to us the solitary ones, the enemy has appeared. In the mirror my features totally change. A raw fiction that gives you gooseflesh! Out the door. The sleepless metropolis and its satellite cities. The seven oceans and the enormous desert. From the summer of Petersburg to the winter of Paris. The woman sang ferociously. I still love you, still love you. And Tokyo. Autumn! The world constructed by my hands is dreaming underneath antennas. At this point, ask yourselves about the moment of awakening through the sonata form. ... I pray for the freedom to die. Applause has begun. I stand up from my seat. Mother!
That autumn, I went to a recital. A concert hall shut in by dry doors. A cold, cruel pianist seated on a hard chair. There the dark dream rejected by sleep silently handed over all weapons to you. You may arm yourself. Love, love your life.
Outside, the rain smelling of fresh gauze turned another corner to the harbor, from the harbor at twilight to the dark sea, to the world of illusion without stars.
Lips became wet. Soon my hands dried. Goodbye. The woman walked past me and went out. Out the door. A tall man waits for me, getting wet in the rain. To live or to die, with a door between us, we load our guns.
Bless us. Even to us the solitary ones, the enemy has appeared. In the mirror my features totally change. A raw fiction that gives you gooseflesh! Out the door. The sleepless metropolis and its satellite cities. The seven oceans and the enormous desert. From the summer of Petersburg to the winter of Paris. The woman sang ferociously. I still love you, still love you. And Tokyo. Autumn! The world constructed by my hands is dreaming underneath antennas. At this point, ask yourselves about the moment of awakening through the sonata form. ... I pray for the freedom to die. Applause has begun. I stand up from my seat. Mother!
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