***

There was something in this guy correcting his forelock.
Melancholic to the core.
Misanthrope in the bends of the elbows under the skin.
Egocentric in thin salty fingers. Smoking with a big puffs.
Its a grin, by inclined his head to the side.
His legs are upholstered in jeans.
In attired slippers,imagining his own worlds.
He never talk about the past.
He forgot about people who loved him.
Weary, penetrated by wind handing his hands in sleeves.
slides from the past in his head, minor memories, pain, his dreams.
Sometimes he forgot about the distances.
The sound of smells like teen spirit in his headphones cant be heard by anyone.
He is bent on balcony in incredible poses, falling from high-rise buildings with a knife, holding it on bane skin of infantile girls.
No exception.
Only a tear-stained eyes and posts in blogs.
But for this story you cant find beautiful pictures.
Beaten…
shivering of the words that he hear in the streets.