ALL DOGS GO TO HEAVEN

 WHO BECAME THE WORKING CLASS WHO CAN'T FIND WORK, SO SIT IN TINY ROOMS PONTIFICATING LIFE, STEWING IN THE SUN UNTIL THEY BECOME UNRECOGNISABLE MASSES OF BEING, NAMELESS FACES WITH THEIR NOSES SNIFFING LINES OF DEAD DREAMS.

WHO LIVED THROUGH COMMUNISM AND COULDN'T SEE HOW LIFE COULD GET WORSE, BUT NOW SLEEP ON PARK BENCHES IN JORDANA, SCREAMING OBSCENITIES INTO THE NIGHT WITH BUMMED CIGS HANGING SHAKILY OUT OF THEIR ROTTEN MOUTHS, AND FALLING ASLEEP WITH EYES OPEN UNDER THE STARS.

THEY SIT IN CRACK DENS ON MOGILSKIE, CHANTING PEACE AND LOVE TO THEMSELVES AND ONLY DARING TO MEET THE SUN WHEN HE PEEKS THROUGH THE DUVET COVERED WINDOWS AT 4AM AS THEY HAVE THEIR RITUALISTIC MORNING REALISATIONS, THAT THEIR LIVES ARE PAIN AND THEIR CHANTS ARE DESPERATE CRIES FOR HELP IN A WORLD THEY DON'T KNOW.

THEY GO TO RAVES IN KAZIMIERZ JUST TO FEEL THE WARMTH OF PEOPLE, WITHOUT DARING TO ENGAGE, AND TAKE THEIR HEADACHES HOME AS ROMANTIC ILLUSTRATIONS OF THEIR ABILITY TO FEEL SOMETHING (ANYTHING), THEIR HEARING DECLINES IN CORRELATION WITH THEIR MENTAL HEALTH, THEIR STANZAS (SCRIBBLED ON POST-IT NOTES) ARE ODES TO LONLINESS AND ANARCHY.

THEY STUDY STATISTICS IN POORLY LIT OFFICE CUBICLES, CONSISTENTLY SNEAKING GLANCES AT THE FAMILY PORTRAIT OF THE PEOPLE WHO CAN'T REMEMBER WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE, THEY CLICK CLACK AT THE KEYS IN A FRENZY TO GET HOME EARLY, BUT THE WORKS KEEPS PILING UP, EVENTUALLY BECOMING TOO HEAVY TO HELP.

THEY SIT AT THE SIDES OF BUSY ROADS, ELDERLY BUT CHEERFUL, SELLING CIGARETTES AND SOFT DRINKS TO HOMELESS ROMANTICS AMID THE SANITY REDUCING BELLS OF THE TRAMS AND THE CHURCHES, FOR THEY ARE ALL CRAZY TO WANT TO END THEIR LIVES NEXT TO THE GENTLE MOTION OF ELECTRIC PUBLIC TRANSPORT AND EXCESSIVE COMMUTING.

THEY START CHIP PAN FIRES IN APARTMENTS CONJOINED WITH REAL ESTATE DEVELOPERS, APARTMENTS FULL OF LUNATICS WHO FEEL SANE BUT TAKE TOO MUCH LSD, GIFTING MEAGRE OFFERINGS OF SWEET POTATOES AND EGGS MIXED WITH A LIGHTER, WITH KNIFES ESCAPING OFF CHOPPING BOARDS TO FIND NATKA ON THE WINDOWSILL.

ARE THEY SCARED? I AM SCARED, I SPEND SLEEPLESS NIGHTS IN CRISIS' OF CONSCIENCE AND EXISTENTIAL NIGHTMARES, I CRY AT RANDOM TIMES AT HOW WE ARE ALL DOGS, LOST SOMEWHERE IN A FOREST, WHIMPERING AND HOWLING AT A LIGHT SHIELDED BY TREES, JUST HOPING TO BE FOUND, WE ALL WANT TO BE FOUND.

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