Just like a diamond on the forehead staring at the ground, my lucid violence is coming twisting all around, My quite damnation is waiting for a punishment: the wiser's compassion and laughters and confinement. As windows steams on the evening of a winter day, or stars keep crying in the ceiling their blasphemous prayers, I could still hear my voice screaming from the other room and could remember the close hugs of a tired womb.
I was still living the brightest days, I was still living the brightest days. The more you push me to the light The more my blackest part is bright.