Or the romance or expectancy of a train platform.
🖼️ Hans Baluschek, 1929.

innocent eyes surrounded me, i could've freed them if I'd have been a better man, but I couldn't be, why I scream, why must I be so weak?
innocent eyes died out slowly, and ghosts of the past smile back at me.

and wicked I be, aye, you see, victims of my crimes, them ghosts, they be; innocent eyes bled for me, why, I scream, why must I be so weak? innocent eyes looked at me, asked me why I couldn't be here and there, everywhere? beats me

the clock runs back and forth, its hands cannot afford to rest easy and let the sun run to its nest, what's next? a moon rises from the west, it's blueish hue shunning the ghosts away and calls for me to rest, but that I can't do even if I had to pick it, for my mum once said no rest for the wicked

i dream of another life, another path, where i can follow and study what I really am passionate about

i have that very copy!