I walk in thorns in the dark
of what's to happen and what has
with my only weapon my only defense
my nails purple like cyclamens.
I saw her everywhere. Holding a glass and staring in space. Lying down
listening to records. Walking the streets in wide trousers and an old
gabardine. In front of children's-store windows. Sadder then. And in
discotheques, more nervous, eating her nails. She smokes innumerable
cigarettes. She is pale and beautiful. But if you talk to her she doesn't hear
at all. ...