Suicide Statues, NYC
The statues by the artist Antony Gromley
A way out, no where to go,
everything seems irrelevant,
transparent faces, amongst transparent places. What is for me?
Is it to join the queues, for something I just do not need,
sounds of yesterdays, memories rolling through my head like an old photo album,
I dream of something that never was, but how do I stop falling. Do I strive in being something I am not, then how do I let go? What is for me?