[SPOKEN] Ladies and gentlemen, you're kindly requested to avoid any kind of conversation by this moment. Just because you can speak, you result being such as lawyers of a miserable liar. Indeed, every human communication issue can be displayed as a collective frame of dull mythomania, since you simply use words to ask things to be what they actually aren't, otherwise there'd be no need to speak at all. Looks like you need to merely talk about things as you wish them to be, more than as they currently are. Your present's substantially evident in itself, silence is your only real way of confession, and all of your speeches are nothing more than a bunch of crafty interested lies.

There just were God and us as children playing hide and seek through the streets we called aloud His name and ours trying to mask the fright of our autism behind our blatancies. There were no gods with us while we were playing the revolution through the streets we cursed aloud His name and life covering all the shame of feeling like a thing we couldn't tell. We fell asleep as naive kids then found ourselves awakened as men. There were no gods with us just warriors holding knives and guns through the streets we called aloud His name and ours trying to hide our desperate minds under our noisy spiky hair. There are still God and us as angels singing their pain through the streets we still bless our own name and life throwing off the shame of understanding that we'll fall asleep as unglorious gods and find ourselves awakened as men.

I grew up in this cold square hid my cigarettes among these walls when their cost was half as much carved in bricks a hundred women's names memory keeps just few of them the ones I kissed perhaps not even that 'cause none of them ever asked where I was headed digging for happiness oh, never mind. And I grew up on a cold peak notched my secrets into the stone carved in ice a hundred naive snowmen memory sees them melt away frightened to death by nonexistence and neglect and none of them will ever wonder if I was happy or if I'll ever be oh, never mind.

Through my window I couldn't find the paths of happiness yet on my wall there was a pair of pinned epic faces suggesting a way as a daydream of tomorrow. Bashful - desperate - lonely fancying of a blatant hero that could pay back all troubles a spine-chilling shout that could upset all my smooth silences worried – outcast – but still alive looking for a manly angel that could restore my Eden or figuring out a way to become that one. [SPOKEN] He was just a kid. He broke his toys and then silently cried. He tried to forget that silence, and his white hours on the fireplace, softly recounting a story he never had. Once he sniffed the city concrete and managed to get up. He became the man his childish tales were fancying about, the man all the whispers had failed to portray. So now he can speak. What if that child could know he's the unexpected hero of his own man's present talks and dreams? We bet he would shout. Quit that melancholic autism, dream of himself. No more lies: he could finally shout. So today there hangs a looking-glass as well as an ancient childish self-portrait well now I'm the hero of my own hero God in my Heaven cloud of my storms I'm the horizon the path and my shoes I'm the boat and I'm the wave. Selfish – charming – and serene master of my days no rhetorics, no more fucking lies a child cosily wearing his clothes I'm still alone I'm still that one.

I'll medicate anyone I stabbed and tail everyone I fled from I'll tinge my young boredom with some cheap pastels bought on the road with no doubts won't look back now I'm coming back home road signs seem to shine brighter as I get close. I took some nice pictures a bag of scattered tears a rusty compass and some fears I'm bringing everything back home.