"Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit."

(He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his breast
At peace. There are two red holes in his right side.)


Deep down I knew things couldn't go on as before. Now I get all worked up over nothing easily. Well, probably people die as well as spray cans - ones get over and it remains nothing them to do but to hiss in vain, other ones, on the contrary, don't have enough pressure, so they will always keep inside what they are made for. Nonetheless, I am hollow empty as ever, ab inito, inasmuch as primarily I should instil my mind with something. As regarding my pressure - it tooks only one moment to flood out me and ends up with insulting words with ever other breath.