Time has messed up my handwriting .
I am waiting for the rain to wash away
all my regrets...
It was in the patchwork scent of the \' 70s...
storm tasted like neural acid .
Decade of lost children .
The guitars sounded harsh .
Subtle note of patchouli ...
I was born the day before ,
between Ocean palisades and hotel California...
Now ,I have cloudy reflections in my hair
and kids no longer believe that Michael Jackson
walked on the moon ...
I met my first girl flower on a trip to Neptune .
Once summer of love is over ,there\'s always
someone who never comes back ,and we wonder
which one is missing from the photo...
I heard that some nutcase escaped from the hotel California
set Pacific palisades on fire ...
On an imaginary worldmap where I cultivate
fields of writing in the gentle trade winds .
Chained by the sound of those siren-like vowels
that disrupt the unstable geography of my mind...
I listen to the messages of the rain as it wets
the path of life ...
I think ,it was around 2030...
The future is already behind us ,
by the time we begin to live .
Bittersweet stroll along the ocean ...