This is a scheduled post planned to be published at 1467841967000 at 1467841967000
When we're dead it means we're dead
When we don't laugh anymore it means we don't live anymore
When I'll have cut the string
Put me in a trashcan
Let me rot for a month
And from there throw me to the cat
May he decline my spleen and my liver
But choose the right time so that he eats my heart
And that I stay with you
On your shoulders and you laps
May I be since we have to exist
The cat from the artists' café