A very long time ago, a night of tumbling around in the sleeping city like a flock of crows, playing football with a tin of fish. We were wearing our best suits and dresses, everyone was singing, and in a drunken stupor, everyone was walking the cobbled streets in their different ways and drinking the raindrops from roses torn from private gardens. The night light and the stars were dancing backwards, ushering in the mirror darkness; we were speaking our own language of chestnuts and gold. We were raining down on moss-covered tiles, we were lapping in the canals and the rising sun was piercing our ear lobes, painting them pink.
Lars Werner och hans vänner - Cirklar & Trioler
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