Hidden neighborhoods...

Our old neighborhoods end always 
empty. The daylights with the sun and
the pale bicycles. The home, the yards, 
the laughs.
The cinema...





Everything seems to change like 
we do. Sometimes between colors, 
and others fade. Sometimes in music, 
and others grey.






Look back...
Everything will be rusty through the time...
The irons, the shadows, the words. And the
cinema... Only the
echoes will never be ceased.
And the whispers in the dark.












Yellow, faded neighborhood of us. With our 
small hearts 
shy crammed into the walls. Countless hearts
that can hide the stars. 
Oh God!
Dreams, like music,  need 
space, and not hidden, small cracks...