My life is a green folder.
It's cold, it's wet.
I open.
I see a brown shadow.
The organ sounds.
bow,
I'm crossing the threshold.
I know, it's a timeless instrument
it whispers to me.
We did it for you, you kid!
You extended your hand.
We gave you.
You know, the green folder is your life.
Open!
Golden sheet with sky blue writing.
A little smeared.
Ah-baby kid poem
“I love you, Mom!
Not today.
I'll leave tomorrow. "
Turn!
See the desert day?
Scorpio is talking.
Fear.
An arm reaches you.
Barna, dude.
He pulls me out of danger.
You are looking at.
Broken, sick look.
Which is more dangerous?
Go!
Paris.
Accordion.
Cigarette smoke.
Glasses glitter.
- "I love you" -
says quiet tan.
- "I'll be good."
Stroke.
The power of your ancestors, the light of your hair,
nomadic power.
Sleepless sleep.
I smooth the air.
"I'll be good," he says,
I'll be good today. "
It's covered in smoke.
They flew around.
He vibrates in the picture.
Today I say, "I'll be good."
Finite riddle.
The paper glides,
slips out of my hand.
“Do you love me?” He asks.
"I'm picking flowers."
Jasper stone scream.
Don't go away!
I hold you in my palm.
My hands are brown.
The stone is you.
Bright.
Durable.
Please your hand.
Small.
Something vibrates.
Lights are on,
let's bow, dear,
the applause is for us.