When I go out into the street I look at those small details. A cigarette butt crushed on the floor. On one of its edges the red ink of a lipstick: memory of other lips that spit saliva and words. I am easily distracted, my mind is a dark room where thinking flows in the picture erase of a memory. Suddenly, I listen to music and fly away, I wait a moment sitting on the floor and I look at the people, while a friend arrives. I start to ask me a lot of things of the life but at the end I don't solved nothing. I laugh and I cry, I think that to clear the head and avoid the traps. I am like a rat in the trap. I think in the woman and the man that attract me, they smoke too. Perhaps the butts-crushed on the floor it has been of one of them.
