an old man at the bus station sits alone and waits for the world to end he smokes like a chimney and holds tightly on a torn book in his left hand each page keeps a secret without any exaggeration in a private universe he saw his childhood drawn in a illustration
CHORUS ever so often he falls to the ground the realness of a fiction the wind brings the bark of the hounds the realness of a fiction he took the first path away from this road the realness of a fiction with nothing to guide him except for his soul the realness of a fiction
the cover of the book was blank except for two digits up in the left corner the numbers were the same as the age of the old man who now felt it was written in his honor he saw his whole life story colored by the shades the realness of a fiction is seeing your own life being described on a page