There is no twilight. This is a fiction of loving artists. The pavements on the sidewalk are sleepless, remaining from the demolition of the houses. Street lamps are triumph of forgotten hats. Not now. No - in the future, when the times are embracing and it is impossible there is no freedom. After that birds flew and angels on the railing. Think, embedded shadows on the old clocks. The end is busy - from a square, where we kiss. I'm not saying at night. Because of the snow. A slight comma with a comma.
