The street - beaten with hands clumsy, doll of concrete with a banging of twigs, with running legs. The passers-by spotted her only when she frowned traffic lights. And they trampled them angrily. Or maybe a bowl - black devils on sticks fight sinful and sinless go "with links". Mannequins under wigs waiting to shrink them into the Nielsen cleanliness. In the glazed menagerie, the chin from the splin, in its cell tame, gray and imperishable, a former bird, a former class dentist, in an empty sclera he dreams his bird's mind. The strides are obsolete, the eaves do not keep, a naive mad discusses how we are lying to each other. No one hears it. And sore, and angry, in a horn is another man: "Yes it is!" and cursing. The smolt of the neighborhood, another lost atom, he goes on and arrests. I listen and do not believe - knows more than anyone about the state capo. His conscience shines briskly at his party. With a bird's eye view from the balcony, three floors above, I do not care, but I assemble the street diva. "The crazy ... crazy are alive!" Said Marco. But I lost the world. And I do not believe in sobriety.
