The night will come. The statue of Buddha on the shelf of the store on the third floor of the endless shopping centre, the sanctuary of the model works in which you are just offering a sacrifice of your own sentimentality will fall asleep.
Changes cannot be seen with your bare eye and your lips pressed on the reed of my dilemmas. That music remains undiscovered. All maps and diagrams do not lie. Another in the line of latest kissing has bene noted.
And the night has come. Announced by the thin membranes of darkness. Saxophones and their tenors will swallow us. The tricksters will mix up the piano keys so that we never regain their meaning. You and I will not experience walking on the ruins. The world remains to the hypnotised, the future belongs to them.