Bipolar.

You call me at 3 because you want to change the tone of the room, that you are sick of gray, that you want to die suddenly. This is what happens lately. And when I get there you ask me out, and a taxi is waiting for us, and the world is accelerating.






Hundred-thousand bars spinning, you and me in this wheel, pictures of a night in photo-thugs.
 






You don't understand that I can't follow you. You want to move, live near the sea. I remember that you said we were different. I must be a kamikaze and I still hope you come back.