sxoinaki (transcript almost)

a hundred thirteen goosebumped, gobsmacked stray dogs stroll along the marina
it s late. i can smell the salt of the sea teasing your curls
will the balloons ever fly?

a dancing spleen, a semi flirting tonic with gin
a rebel without a bra
and a star hidden in the dark
a moan echoing through the stretches of night
what does it mean ? no really
a bed in the dessert bizarrely lit
a shipwreck, a burning bridge
a wooden carriage simulating turtle motions in the reflections of sand
an old grandmothers bed, the only real bed
our bodies the way they should be
old children photos that would never be familiar enough
a stressed steering wheel
a wandering police car
viola, uri caine, juno
our own very personal culture
our own little private world
the sound of incoming sms
heart palpitations, a heart pace that goes boom boom boom
blueberry nights
a white hat with a red ribbon that i will never see at what it was destined for
a casual random bicycle ride
sweat from the armpits
we suffer of short memory and of the moon cycles
of bruised egos and of bruising egos
a very special descending tree
we suffer of learned patterns consistently wrong
of vanity
of lust
of vanity
will the balloons ever fly?