Crying on the pile of brothers, in the wall street full of running numbers, with papers falling down to oily roads, his weak limbs shook him a little like some quake born out of nothing like some fall crossing the gravity he knelt down with slowness of apathy the war is growing young and the skies fill with red fog his eyes balls began to slide to the wetness of his inherited tears to the economy of one's greed on to the marx's philosophy of ignorance his shiny tuxedo shone a little more with his weary blood dripping ounce by ounce with a rythm of whore turning him into a singularity of rising in this weak weak life in this mighty mighty death of coins, cards and paychecks of hunger, greed and slaves. fishing in the mirages of this capital circus.
-Aroon Che
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