Thunder roads,
We own the mountains of laces dreams
And the morning figure stupefies us
Hours wasted, golden chains
Speed dries our hearts in the pink mist
Abandoned cars near the highway
The morning curves, enchanted skies
History looms clad in roses
My hears is drugged with your sunbeams
Californian sound, full of black dreams
Paul Schrader shooting the Canyons
Three flies on Lindsay’s pallid neck
Brian de Palma falls asleep
Is it a tree or a spatial vessel ?
Love is Beverly Hill’s fallen angel
Samantha Geimer’s ghost in the houses
In pure waters and cold hours