.lara is bored

During my days, there is no whistle, the streets are quiet, the world it absent from itself. Is empty of life, of breathing – is silence. Between an avenue and the main street you sense the difference there, there She is, softly nitroglycerine, no munt, no eye. Its name is spelled all over. The body, the one, is degage from the others, of the other and others. Is a sticker of damaged cities, countries and fallen empires. Maybe it belongs to its own lap where it won’t consume itself. As a tourist of no-one’s land, my lady-journey, my lady-no-penny, my lady broken-romance, my poetic femme de misère.

Her urge of hunger is something else. And if she stays lost against your belt, glued, founded into your white genetics, is because my new friend, you didn’t chase her away.