I'm not going to any summit. No that mountaineer me. I'm starting dynamite. I go downhill skiing. The wind blows into my eyes. I can't see anything anymore. Will something else surprise me. I'm still running for points. All the strength behind my curvature that pulls me to the ground   Now you must definitely succeed, how much you can be a suicide. Why do I start it again? Hey, apparently I have a reason. Before he drives me to my grave. Unfulfilled love and the rest of addictions. I usually have green fog. Everything around is invisible. Fresh air from door to window. From the ceiling to the threshold. I turn on the beatmaker and fall into a trap I smoke blunts and listen to music. It's good that someone came up with drugs. I wouldn't be myself. If I had to lose it.