In the street corner cafe I'm undertaking an urge goal To close the circuit of my Wednesdays And your Fridays. That is not a proper week, But optimists are like true gamblers: We are playing with the bricks, Instead of making of them houses.
No rain to make us wet. No sun will make us bronze. But anyway the roof is there, So anyway we're closer.
And the distance get so wide, The world turns to be discrete, And our steps are made aside, It seems to me that's a disease.
And my will will die you know Untill you cope with this diagnose, I'm painting self-portrait so far In the cup of too cold coffee. And will will die you know...