Our coins are wasted on the arcades and we waste the rest of our days lying on wet pavements screaming and name calling pedestrians. Shoplifting pays well and we keep a twenty percent of stuff for the difficult years in the cellar. In its front entrance we've placed a set of antlers bought from an antique store to keep away the unwelcome. Inside the cellar we keep our stuff and 3 bird cages. Two of them accomodate two yellowish canaries and one bares the weight of our dead mice's skeleton.
We have patched the sockets with plasticine and the speakers are leaky. The dull buzz coming out of them makes the neighbours sleep a real torment as we choose the night hours for our silly basement parties.
At dawn, this place is even more of a mess than how it used to be and we lay or shake on the floor blue. We use the salt our mothers threw behind our backs for good luck to wash every new scratch.
It's all vain, but, it's the only thing we have besides the arcades that pays off a bit. Every new morning is a new plague. As our teardrops land on wet soil we understand that the place you're standing on doesn't really make a difference when you are crying.