Fifteen storeys high, the black curtains drawn, and the sun is just a brat that spits and the goes away. The T.V. chatters, there’s a pile of letters scattered on the mat. Reminders, bills–they smell of cats. Three starving cats who chase each others’ shadows. They curl up on him overnight and scratch him, and bite him . . . But he lost the will to fight, and he lost the will to move . . . It’s been a month, will be another, until the busting down the door. They’ll carry him away; they’ll strip him clean. They’ll lock him in a padded box some fifteen storeys high where the sun is just a brat that spits then goes away.
The more it changes the more it stays the same Yes, the more it changes the more it stays the same The more it changes the more it stays the sameTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
