I am looking for the word spilled on the street, yes, the same you dropped by on your way to the fall.

I may be inspired by Interpol. Gloomy music composes the thread of my days, the threat to my ways. It’s like saying, or rather singing to the wind, « Never stop whirling these things in my head. Never top my head with heatwaves anymore.

Fill me with nature filtered through town. »

My heart is heavy, but how could it be otherwise? How could I want it light when even winds are strong and deep? When the ground’s dirt is being lifted up, and transported to my heart altogether?

Could I just want it that way, and never complain anymore? Could I just accept the dirt for being dirty, the filth for being filthy, the shit for being all the same?

I might be insane, as you might say. (That leaves us with « being sane » as the most probable thing that could happen to me.) But I might just as well be fond of dark paths and scary parts, mad cats and weary naps.

You never know, I might be a diver too. Or a pioneer, if it does matter. And I’m gonna sing it up to the moon, as another tiring autumn day vanishes blankly in the crisp air.