Adolescence

my thoughts are in a constant state of inextricable vanity,

stubbornness of one concentration that cannot be broken,

my fear for becoming a provincial-wealthy-concise living-old man has left me,

I feel not need to worry such a thing,

I put on my tie,

I rattle my bib,

tomorrow is the day of broken hearts,

She blushes at me,

"I'm a rye, what are you?",

I'm a Don Quixote man: a quixotic man,

who else exists in this state of my mind?,

which has become completely inscrutable,

but who?,

now you have just enraged me.

G.D.