The city is a cactus with prickly thorns, his lonely blood appears in the pale faces - impersonal, lousy and devoid of souls ... under the sun - fraudulent shadows of the night. In the laces of his streets torn, creeps doomed human crowd ... hearts without feelings ... glances scowling, in front of them ... behind them ... all wind and fog. A pecuniary procession that has begun ... whispering, breathing, walking obituaries ... cluttered in the multilayered being, gasoline ... fatigue ... mud and drug-doses. The city is an ugly cactus with thorns inward, killing every bright thought in the fetus; trapped trap in no tomorrow ... The city is a ghost ... in the minds wander!
