The world has become strange and unpredictable. The kindest rustle of the night's moon turned into the dreadful sound of a marching orchestra in a parade of dead zone. The early morning sun glimmers which was giving to a pure dew on the green leaves in the Zeus garden - colours of life, became the hot stove burning your sinless skin. You are like a little boy who runs through streets with eyes closed. A boy who just wants to run past the bench with minors attracted into an illusionistic world that has been created by one cheap injection. A shattered glass bottle of wine after a drunken debate last night.
Where is the world of singing larks and blushing violets on a spring meadow?
I run on!
Where is the world of singing larks and blushing violets on a spring meadow?
I run on!
