Your life is nothing but piano, women and smoke.
The revolver you stole when you were young will never belong to your soul.
You face the death of your father with a blank face, and your tears blur the mirror to pay homage to the dead dog.
You come and go when you call women, and you return when you call music.
You are an artist who has smoked for a lifetime, and you are a prodigal son of a lifetime of corruption.
Your chapters, like amber, are gorgeous, but they are not fresh.
All of this,
just because you never found true love, you are buried in the smog of corrupt art.
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