Saturday, June 19, 2010

Top of the world.

Everything is fine here. On the outside. Perfect, if anything is.

There is a hill here. You can see all the lights in the world from the top of it. And more. Distinct. As if underlining their existance. Their loneliness. Their...darkness.

And a lake. And all the lights multiply in it.

The smoke from the industry chimneys stains the dark dark sky. Floyd sounds even better here. Sometimes I wonder if I am talking to nobody in particular. Just the smoke, maybe. And the smoke doesn't give me answers too.
As if I am alone in this. What is the use of sitting on top of the world if there is no one to look down and wave?

Maybe I am just a nice guy.

When it rains, it smells like home...

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