There s exosting march rain again. Last bus has left again. I sneese again.

It s spring, it s march. I love march.
If I pass three blocks there can be soon the serving bus. It ll go to the bus park. If uncle Nick is a driver he ll take me. There are puddles, puddles everywhere. & cherry-vanilla smeel of something indifferent. Captain Black has such smell. When there s the last sigarette of it left.
At night only rats & dogs go about this city. I do not want to be one of the first but much less one of the second ones.
There s a wet bus stop. I sit on the slippery bench. & there s rain again. Near me I see the sheets of paper messed with herring. Drunkers must have left them. I have nothing to do so I take one & start reading. It s a page from the book. I read some phrases with difficultyness. Hemingway. Cat under the rain. Now it seems so that someone sad was reading stories of Hemingway & than drank. One drank for long & bitterly.Mixing vodka with rain.
I wonder if I do not go away rats will eat me or I will eat rats. I watch into the wet asphalt. I wonder when my eyes became green. May be it s just march. I hate march. There are seldom lights of cars. Seems I ll wait for noone now. So I ll just have to go to. To rain