eight o'clock. the sun's up. no more thoughts for a brighter day because the day is gone. the fire has burnt us all down. the ashes are not food for hope, they're dust from the stars and we politely sit and drink whatever we fancy, talking about how low can a man dig a hole. talking about how dirty can we get our hands, our bodies and souls. we know it all, it's dancing before us and it's laughing at us but still we close our windows and go to bed. praying for a better day or even worse, falling asleep before we even got the chance to think of what happened today.
