Yes, but there comes a time when rings stop being barricades and foreign promises to become the inhabitants of a dancing fingers jungle, always covered by the shine of a bright look and a smile of rain that disguises time as if it were an out of batteries automaton and walks back home in a confused levitate, a recognition maybe still and always brutal, and rings stop being chains' links to become the beings with whom I would like to dwell this sweet and transitional eternity, embraced with streetlamps and  bristled with warm reflections, with echoes of stares and voices that play to reappear between the parked cars, under the hedges, through my veins that, surprise, suddenly say that they aren't so tired.

Oh well, oh well.