Just one hundred meters red lights are lit Turquoise House.
Tonight, as other, carving whimsical figures frost on the windows.
In the street, including cartons, emulate the flashing neon and naked me slowly behind the smoke of a cigarette.
Misfortune could be the name of a jazz band fashion. But no.
Misfortune is only the music of the dispossessed. Danzan
my fingers until they become a beggar gesture.
shudder of shame.
The drunk on Wednesday left a crumpled bill in my pocket.
We do not pay taxes on every stroke.
me drooling, touch me, I own, use me, I sink, overwhelm me, I forget ...
In the Casa Turquesa, whores do not go cold.
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