Blurred vision, but the perfect moon. Another sucker who can’t sleep, and I, looking at a burning cigarette that raises its smoke in the cold of the night. Everything is perfect in an imperfect globe, what a paradox.
Another day, another morning, same place, same people. Another me, another you, but still, the same. The perfect view of an imperfect life. Or the imperfect view of the perfect life? Who knows?