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Story Of J.

Through the doors of years and borders and orders from the old books
running aimlessly to catch a piece of memory and freedom.
An everlasting wish to buy, to fly inside a plastic hall of tiny paper pleasures.
Promise from the gods of gold, but old and empty are the spaces in which we still try to believe
that we could hold a candle high to save what's left to save.
A faithless thief has stolen flowers from eternity and hell,
she tries to sell them on the daily market, she goes insane,
she falls away with nihil in her hands.
A chain of poisoned Mondays surrounds her daily chest.
To final rest she falls, to weeping things and falling towers, never ending screams ...
She knows there will be days of pleasure but cannot find a way to great oblivion.
Behind the walls of life she's staying blind ...
She dies on Monday, creeps to loss it's always Monday takes her cross to weeping beds and dreams.
Jesus dies on Monday, with flowers in her hair ...
Always dying someday;
let's take her cross away ...

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