i recall that fog-smokey rooms you rented.
less the chicks you fucked. some of them were shy, others pretty talkative.
all of them were cooking your dinner. none of their names i remember.
it was the music that made me visit you.
we proudly shared all the new stuff.
you sold me your cd-player and i listened to discs recorded by a friend of yours.
bjork, radiohead, massive attack..."look, listen to this shit, dude...isn't it amazing?"
You kept telling me stories about your women, funny stories.
Women with no names. Coming and going.
We didn't do drugs.
You were too paranoid for that.
I also remember us watching a Cranberries gig and you kept
saying how beautiful was Dolores and you'd marry her.
You are married now.
And I miss that smokiness.
And I miss that smokiness.
All the good music heard for the first time...
All the stupid talks on life death happiness fear...
I miss all that shit.
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