For who it might concern, August is a cruel month, it keeps us warm but it surprises us with a shower of rain. August gave me Belgium and I give you the world behind it. August is the natural death of summer and the best audience to see autumn be reborn. Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time between hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait... they know what I mean.
Those who move and travel and never surrender. Those who take the world not only as a word...but the word within. The world as a world word... against it, against it all. They know what I'm talking about...
This was Bruxelles, just another sincity of desining men. Where people speak bad dutch and translate their misery into french satisfaction... and I still can't get it.
No satisfaction...just Bruxelles.
I woke up some place else, I dreamt of you and you..and you too. I counted the time in coffee spoons and before I knew it I was waiting for someone to fall from the sky, a falling angel or my living hell. Good Morning Brussels.
Bonne nuit mon cher...
This was Bruxelles, where chocolate can choke your most darkest desire and gothic buildings look half awake, just at the bottom of the pit of the world. The real world.
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.:Lo wrote this at: 4:17 AM:.