It's 2:15,
Under the moonbeam,
Where pleasure comes out,
Thinking of the past,
Oh Lord, if only we could go back,
To the days when we were only kids,
Without nothing to worries,
Hoping for the carousel to keep spinning,
Play like there is no tomorrow,
With a blissful thoughts,
Where everyone we met is fucking nice.
Now,
The thoughts are fucking crumbled down to nothing,
People we met,
Is full of cyanide.
All i can do,
Is on my knees,
Praying to God,
To give me some strength to face it.
artword by,
fira
