š° šššš ššššš šššš ššššš, ššš šššš šššš šššššš, ššš ššššššš šššš šš ššš -ššš šššš. I have plenty of reasons to turn on this groggy and crazy bird chest. I do not belong to the woman who dreams of canvases covered with silver swans and burning absinthe. Nor to the woman who throws the piece of a verse into the clay of hands that make walls of polished essence. š° šššš ššššš šššš ššššš, ššš šššš šššš šššššš, ššš ššššššš šššš šš ššš -ššš šššš. I have plenty of lies of old poets talking about love. I have plenty of yours that do not plant mine. The nights without verb. The dogs th