the coffee black and nearly cold and i look back while hours pass by a sheet of paper on the table torn to shreds if you are able to solve the puzzle, try it’s my last script that you may hold or wipe away when the bar has closed my last remains here in your hands and in the end what i was writing for, i just don’t know don’t know how many times to make youy understand or was it for the triumph of applauding hands how many words i had to spell and all the stories i would tell for the short and orgiastic turn when’d you say: well what were they for, these black inked dreams a guaranty that i was wise and so called gods define an entrance for eternal life into a masterpeace of mine all i wanted to be was extraordinary, extraordinary and maybe i was wrong how many people have i killed with my suicidal songs