In that period of time he began pouring his trust into a half a pint cups of local beer and cheap cigarettes, local as well, which he could afford, who would have guessed?...
He used to gaze at girls with a curious and contemplative look that was also full with sadness and despair, instantly advocating for the holy mission and function of the prostitutes and the escort ladies and he already a abandoned the idea of having a pet except the turtle.
From time to time he use to scribble incomprehensible prose and poetry and couldn't find any condolence even in Hemingway or Cobain.
His only consolation was with the pen and watching the sunset off the sandy sea shore, for he could be sure that the same sun isn't dying buy only moving to a better place.
It seemed like he will leave after him numerous beginnings for stories and a lot of middles as well...
Sometimes, it would have seems to him that the first end he's going to write is going to be his own.
Leaving behind communities of characters that all their world is nothing but a few words, that seems like they are going to prosper and blossom but they were faded and gone like the sole of the candle's flame on top of a birthday cake, which was blown off while giggling her childhood laughter, leaving behind a delicate and curly thread of smoke, that is gone in a blink of an eye.
At the age of twenty-two he began writing his own eulogy, like this miserable old woman, preparing her own shrouds, but from that too he was finely despaired.

She said she's here for me every day after eleven.
in the same window at the same street she will sooth my lonely heart.
Laura was her name, staring out from heaven,
on those red light streets of lonely Amsterdam.

Acoustic notes from distance, and sweet scent in the air...
She said she can't be mine alone she's here for all to share.
I'm roaming in this foggy dream and trying to brake free,
and the women are angelic as a joint may be

Behind the glass i stare to heaven, looking for my angel's eyes...
Eleven sharp she's nowhere to be seen.
In the next window one big woman with two royal thighs
i asked for her advise about my queen.

Boy, didn't you hear?
I saw her sorrow spread
And then i noticed downwards thread of tear.
The poor girl that was just nineteen
So alive she was and now she's dead.
She fell into that hellish snow
The snow that drives you mad
I saw her just a week ago
"Come to me instead"

Acoustic notes from distance, and sweet scent in the air.
She said she can't be mine alone she's here for all to share.
I'm roaming in this foggy dream and trying to break free,
and the women are angelic as a joint may be

I'm alone again,
my angel's gone and snow inside her vain.
"So young..." the big one cries.
She's lighting up a cigarette and drying up her eyes.
And so the same old sorrow, self loathing and despect.
I finished my goodbyes, and sunk my grief between her royal thighs.

With colors that you have never seen before, she is dancing in front of you since you've stepped through that door.
With turquoise eyes and frisky hair, she is bright and delicate like a moon-light glare.
You pure atheist but still compere, is it luck or divine affair.
Your demons whisper in your ear beware, and in your heart they seed despair,
So, to touch you do not dare.

Your heart is aching, your body sore, you want to swim to this outlandish shore.
Its cold outside, you want no more.
She is your queen that you adore.
All this or, your demons urge, you've burned before.
Jump in to her flame, you fool!
Dive in to her hellish pool...
She will eat you body hole and scorch your mortal soul.

You swing your sword for glory, like in a forgotten story.

Deeply you inhale, i will fight for you in snow or gale.
Resolute then you set sail.
An odyssey to this novel place, to get but a mere glimpse of her immortal grace.