on the road

Forget all of the sunburnt town, me included, drop it in a public garbage can.
Dead cats on a highway. On the road again.
One of the girls I knew used to live in a shabby appartment near the intersection. She got paid for making love with boatsmen from countries she hadn't been to.
Once again in front of the appartment where she used to live I take to the intersection. Los montes de Màlaga have the unnoticed pleasure of distance. Forget about summer then,
Dolores would have said the same. In Tolox no one ever on a typewriter wrote more distant words.