Plan to be a pleasant guy.

While walking around Oxford Circus, I met a beggar saying goshing words. He complained. The beggar told me about young laughing. Children smiling. Yes, it's different. You know that!, he was shouting to people (or to me, maybe) in a grouchy mood. But it was not offensive. I can not explain how something grouchy may be shouted not sounding offensive. That's it.

The old beggar. My sight. You look at me. No, you look at him. At the beggar. The sight is: The beggar, Me, You, The pigeons, and Me again. It's not complex. So, pay attention! What do you make? What can you make?! The beggar shoots a pigeon, kandles a flame of fire, on prime-ful Square; yes, now we are at Trafalgar Square, where polishes, hungarians, italians, libaneses, You, Me, the beggar, the pigeons, and some hidden rats bunch ourselves trying (or sampling) to be pleasant ones, or, at least, sensible people. But Me and other animals are not capable of being reasonable. There's no reason for us.

It's too late, when the night delays to coe, but arrives flashing any kind of live, the beggar eats his pigeon. You look at me sadly. I don't have a place to look, either to put my sores down, or a shoulder. It doesn't mind, i think, because ever will exist someone harmfully than me. But...but... pigeons have just gone. Only one stayed, dead. It's your deadline, i scream to reach you. Yes, you comprehend me, and I need to get along with myself, lonely. Hey!, i say, do not go far. You ask me to overcome insanity, because it can take me (us you wanted to say) over. I agree, but i inquire if you allow me to keep not being a pleasant guy. Of course, that's your answer, i don't like pleasant ones.