At night, people sleep. In most cases, anyway. Some in the soft bed of a comfortable home. With a shoulder as a pillow. Head buried. Other sleep as they can. Alone. Under a bridge. In a corner. A dark corner out of sight who judge.
night, there are those who work. To save lives, repair our roads, our trains clean, prepare our breads.
night, there are those who dance, wiggle on rhythms to forget and forget. Others prefer alcohol, Drugs and wander like lost souls in gloomy streets of a sleepy capital.
night there are people who screw. Love. By envy. For money. For one night. At night there are night owls, sleepwalkers, cuts full of bubbles. At night there are the couch, fans of the image, mesmerized by their screens, brutalized for hours before the programs most often distressing.
Night Bashung him, he lies.
night out on the day that those banned. The exiles of light, shadows, forgotten. At night there are people dying. Fatigue. For a rumor or a cigarette. For their color.
night there are babies who born. To replace those who left. The space of a lifetime. A temporary indefinite.
night, everything is different. Noise and echo sounding. The shadows are ominous, oppressive silence. The night is fleeting. Strange and unfathomable. Nothing seems to disturb. But sometimes a scream pierces the night. Then I look into the dark bottle, water and milk. Because in a month, regardless of whether one is born. Whatever it is night. Hunger justifies the means.
night, there are those who work. To save lives, repair our roads, our trains clean, prepare our breads.
night, there are those who dance, wiggle on rhythms to forget and forget. Others prefer alcohol, Drugs and wander like lost souls in gloomy streets of a sleepy capital.
night there are people who screw. Love. By envy. For money. For one night. At night there are night owls, sleepwalkers, cuts full of bubbles. At night there are the couch, fans of the image, mesmerized by their screens, brutalized for hours before the programs most often distressing.
Night Bashung him, he lies.
night out on the day that those banned. The exiles of light, shadows, forgotten. At night there are people dying. Fatigue. For a rumor or a cigarette. For their color.
night there are babies who born. To replace those who left. The space of a lifetime. A temporary indefinite.
night, everything is different. Noise and echo sounding. The shadows are ominous, oppressive silence. The night is fleeting. Strange and unfathomable. Nothing seems to disturb. But sometimes a scream pierces the night. Then I look into the dark bottle, water and milk. Because in a month, regardless of whether one is born. Whatever it is night. Hunger justifies the means.
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