Tonight, the knife is out ofrange.
Drink a glass of red wine, drunken, people drift.
Drift in the rivers and lakes.
The sand is up again, putting the page.
Dark, gradually black, I can't see five fingers ...
The rain has fallen.
Distance, like a wolf ...
The knife has been scabbard, a sharp knife, and points the way to the foot.
I started to start, just tonight ...
