A sip on a drink is like a story on the verge
merging into loops outside of the vibe
with people in my head perspirating
just my luck, my sweat is a river
sarcasm, the ice, the melting face, I am to you
more light on your face
we raise our glasses and spill it all
get back, to attack, the spectacular memory
and destroy my voice
and cushion my breathing
and the loss of your body looking for me
and the portrait of your mother
in a rich mansion
of a man who could care less about art
to this is what we sip for
for this is what I call, we mastered it all
no more life, no more in-depth awakenings
even the friends are crying
even my devil speaks
and it may just seem that the telephone is ringing
but there is no sin on the line
just the sound of the sneaky monotone
with fighting over white tiles at 12:00
I'm trying to get some decent lighting in my life

 
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