Sadness comes rarely, only at night, afternoon or in the morning. What's troubling me is this feeling of emptiness that's been wanting to suffocate me every time I step away from others. It's lurking, always prepared, always anticipating my soft hours so it can drop some knives in the vertigo and we can all have some fun with crows and tough air and broken glass and war and war dressed as peace.
I want wings not legs, I want kisses not stares, I want someone who's not there.

What awaits for us, I’m afraid, is no longer a matter to be fixed, it’s a matter to be waited upon.
Death of communication, degrading quality of society, the increasing low of the human mind.
To let yourself care is a foul choice.
Comfort is the goal, but comfort is such an easy thing to achieve.  
To strive for something more is a mystery that needs explaining, but with time is going to be laughed at.
Leaders don’t provide security but only intensify disbelief and doubt.
With the sense of comradeship gone extinct goes courage.
One can’t change for the better when all we’re facing is change but a phony one, filled with false hope.
It’s not surprising that no one has ˝the itch˝.
What’s surprising is that we still get out of bed in the morning, ready for rescue, thinking that today may be the moment of turning.

The cause of my reasons has no similarity to your thoughts and suffering
Your lips don’t move my mind and focus stays primarily on the background
Your eyes don’t reach me, I lied before in that unforgivable way and unfortunately I don’t see you  
I see only with my blood, pressured with rage through my veins
And images, oh those reprobate veils under which you feed of me,
you tragically disregarded mirror, a misunderstood projection of someone who was someone, maybe myself, a long time ago.
Disoriented I thole, not knowing is getting too familiar.

The touch you give me, it’s angry, feels nothing in return
The touch becomes nothing and all falls together
Eyes, words, a hand, a soul
Begin to crumble under a table, glasses long before emptied
In hope to make you meet my eyes in the moment I should meet yours
In hope to make you touch me and in return feel the warmth
In hope to make you make me say the words you want to hear
I don’t know if you’re real but you’re more real than me  
I know that for sure.

Anorexic branches of weeping willows
Get played by the wind
A hungry man pushes milk on a trolley
Strolls by corpses for their sins skinned.
All this shines under morning rays of Melancholy.

Soft sounds of Rachmaninoff
Make nature in frames move
Holy is the feeling of freedom
Every escape of mine freedom does approve.
All this shines under morning rays of Melancholy.

Silver collars of workmen
All washed and left to dry
Empty parks and streets get haunted
As years go by.
All this shines under morning rays of Melancholy.

Hordes of suits pour in crimson rooms
Stacked with greed
From floor to roof
Indeed fast they run when they smell the truth.
All this shines under morning rays of Melancholy.

Shadows go around
Green dies and again is reborn
Every year with even less sound than before
Corpses still hang, God wants more

And all this shines
'Till one day it sets on fire
Burnt is the last proud buyer
Melancholy stands still, stopping to admire
Then walks away, She understands;
The world has expired.