City and the dystopia

Hi; it's me; sometimes I wonder what is like to walk inside a tortil mind's lane: the dystopia of the city.
Well actually I used to roam there trying to find some thrills in the haze; you know.
Some thrills in the haze. But I'm still I; I; you know I can't change.


Gijón is so nebulous in the winter mornings by the shore.
And hey; I wondered, just wondered: what about me? What about anyone who's occult behind the anonymous mask of the city?
A mask full of perversions and unexpected dark sides; hey...
Gijón is so nebulous in the winter mornings by the shore.

But, when you look into my eyes: what do you see..?


The winters of the city hide something rare in the Sol: schizoid stares, and the orphan.
I know what all those beggars and old people about to die want.
This is a conspiracy of silence, and nobody else knows the perversions that are occult inside your mind, you.

You.












...But I don't mind: all they are about to die; all them. 
Children of rape & the violence: marginal cold of a distant dystopia.

But for me. For me everything seems to be distant. Like past lives where all the horror and the masquerade haunt me in blurred images in the white nights, when the rain buries the sky alive into the ground.
Because I'm dead and gone, I think I told you this once before.
If you'd know how incredibly cold all this is.



The dance of the regeneration will come at last; like a newly born coming out from the vaginal meat.
Like the vaginal meat that encircles the city, in the high hours of the black menace.

But I am dead. And gone.