de jó neked

playing with the cloud of this smoke from this forbidden substance, a cigarette
imagining myself in that street where i still might be, walking, a dusty slope
imagining you let me out of my little box and let me walk a bit
i come back and you put me back in the box and in your pocket
you've left me there. i'm in the washing machine.
it's nice temperature and i don't know how it is but this italian washing powder is simply delicious
but the box is soaked