Under the pants of an old red brick.

Stoned, out of love, rushing to the door. Walls of eyes are watching the air torn appart by my opened hands gripping every doorstep. I am surrounded and I don't care. The black stripe of photos hanging like a barcode on every side of the room has no force in expressing its rows of white shirts. Decades of no other disagreeing than a mere rise in chemistry needs. I won't stop before them. I won't look and detail for you. What do you care? Let them pile under some poor shape of stone. There is a party here I reckon. A Fraternity Party. A soup of blood in the basement that couldn't even express the cheapest vodka they had this night. All this for an hour of smile, Oh Lords of Wealth, why don't you give us what we need? And they are turning, turning, spinning, rocking for their worlds. I break my bones laughing. Soon the ceremony of good-bye will summit in the main room for the ancestors to look, and hope from where they do not fear anymore, that some body will finally trash the place to its roots for the bettering of something. I simply hope that the front door will stay.