Angels like smoke of our cigarretes, religion of counciousness.
In a way, anyway, the meet of our feelings, of our trues, wich was nothing but the fact of our ignorant mistakes.
Well, the light was on in our sights, or just look like. And we bet. We bite in a hungry, in a hurry...
Late to be, to seek an end. Trying to comprehend a bit of existence.
Shame on us, periods of a line.
Reaching not to be what we were. Material of some substance, doesn't matter what.
But the night was the end, dying on the next day with a real Sun melting all the possible ilusions.
Going on as the night, becoming just part of our dreams. Lefting a little light for your cigar above and beside your screams.