A morning on the streets…
My feet are cold. The beer bottle in my hand is empty and the whores have gone back to their day/own lives. I try to stand. The beer bottle falls down on the broken cobblestones and brakes with a sharp clang, I don't care. The bottle was empty, the delicious bubbles long gone…
I stumble out of the dark alley and onto the street. As I walk I see children running around and supposedly "playing". Little "pickpockers" with clever little fingers and fast feet… I envy them that. My fingers aren't clever any more and my feet aren't fast. I envy the women and their men, their better halves. My love was killed three years ago under her own roofs.
People walk past me, screwing up their faces when they smell the alcohol, sweat and dirt drifting off my trousers, shirt and my other ragged clothes.
The police can't put me in jail. I haven't done anything, but still they come and order me to go. One day I will, but not today. Maybe tomorrow…