They are no ghosts, they are revellers,
They live at night, they are night dwellers.
They dance to rhythms in their head,
The later the hour, the more they seem dead.
They are kept alive by sounding bass,
There's no individual, there's only mass.
They need not go home, because home is where's music,
So the streets they roam, though they roam while not lucid.
Todos los derechos pertenecen a su autor. Ha sido publicado en e-Stories.org a solicitud de Norman Möschter.
Publicado en e-Stories.org el 22.03.2014.