-transcript (edited) by moleskine-
Where this train is headed? About the pilot?
The anxiety of not knowing where you are when it is time that you should already be at your destination and the doors will not open on a dock, but on the brushwood. Too long, this train, for small stations in the province. The date back slowly, looking for another form of life that bring me back to reality, but I will stop in front of a car completely dark, I fear, as when a child swam right up where the sandy bottom and began the rocks.
I know my city incinerator, lit and smoking in the crystal sky. What a beauty.
If tomorrow I were to work, write all night.
Where this train is headed? About the pilot?
The anxiety of not knowing where you are when it is time that you should already be at your destination and the doors will not open on a dock, but on the brushwood. Too long, this train, for small stations in the province. The date back slowly, looking for another form of life that bring me back to reality, but I will stop in front of a car completely dark, I fear, as when a child swam right up where the sandy bottom and began the rocks.
I know my city incinerator, lit and smoking in the crystal sky. What a beauty.
If tomorrow I were to work, write all night.
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