Not a head stands out
A finger rises
Then it is the voice that one knows
A signal

a brief note

A man leaves
Up above a cloud that passes by
No one goes in
And the night keeps its secret

The overcast skies had the colour of deadened stones, and seemed closer than usually, as though they were phlegmatically observing my every movement with their apathetic emptily blue-less eyes; each tiny drop of hazy rain drifting around resembled transparent molten steel, the pavement looked like it was about to burst into disconsolate tears, even the air itself was gray, so ultimate and ubiquitous that colour was everywhere around me.

Some women wear a miniskirt to reveal their thighs; some wear one to conceal their age.

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