And now? What else do I do? What will I do when everybody is gone? For who shall I fight if I don't even know myself anymore? A poem of doubts lives in my head as a flea lives In the ear of a dog that maybe, one day, barking will stop. The nights were made for ******, drunks and the sick of love people but also for those who minds won't ever stop barking.
I never quite know how to organize thoughts after midnight