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1-6 of 6
- Damn all intentions. Damn the expectations, illusions, calculations. Memories. Endings. Anguish, with its double sided blades, anesthetizes everything at the same time as stripping the flesh from the shredded muscles torpidly glued to the bones that have been punished by humanity. A second ago the whispering of the leaves being caressed in the trees could be heard. All these are transitions of the possible to the real. Big invincible stones worn away by the friction of the stillness which makes everything move, organize, articulate, sink. Destroyed. Constant maladjustments between what is and what should be. Dreams. Emptiness. Bad smells. Putrefaction. Reversed souls, hung out in the afternoon breeze. Wakes. Resurrections. Hope. Toxic clouds that poison the environment. Melodies. Tapping. Signs. Mould. Listen to me even if you are not allowed to do it anymore. Believe me when I tell you that I have always dreamed of this moment. Believe me when I say that I have always been here. Believe me when I say that I always wanted to come back. Please, believe me. Believe me even if you are not allowed to do it anymore.
- To sleep without the chance to dream. These are a hundred natural shocks which turn to a smoke filled sulphate. Thus, the return to dust with this, oh, but last taste of wine, may all thy sins be remembered.
- There is a second that exists at the end of a sleepless night, just before the cock crows, in which to each human being the possibility of finding absolute solitude with himself is offered. A sole instant, naked, real, where the doubts vomited out through the mere act of existing are allied to the un-materiality of the future, so as to, unexpectedly, awake the urgent need to provide with some type of certainty all that we feel, all that we believe in, all that which any type of answer resounds as emptiness. Especially in this second. Perhaps the most heart-ripping. Probably the most merciless. And most surely, the most sincere.
- The Bike is a way of being, of moving, of gyrating, of ascending and of descending. A manner of transporting our systemic way of being through the welding to its structure by means of an absolute abstraction to all which crosses our path at that instant in time. The mere fact of riding the bike involves the acceptance, becoming at one with a secondary force capable of helping us to travel along the pathways, (internally and externally) of which the Routine cuts deep grooves upon life's surface. The mere fact of propelling the pedals signifies the assumption of its indispensability when confronting any individual initiative. That's why it is always available. Always. At the right time, at the right place, without fail, precise like a clock mechanism. That's where the Routine starts, the bike turns out to be necessary. And, hence, it shows up. For whoever and no-one. Being part of our lives. Of our Routine. And also of our more or less chromatic way of confronting it.
- Fake. Fake Ophelia drowned in the bathtub. Fake Hamlet scarred by the black flowing rivers of makeup. Gone. Gone is forgiveness, emptiness, jealousy, cowardice. The remains. Destroyed. The ruins. Death becomes you.
- Once upon a time there was a house by the sea. A big house. A big, strange house. A big, strange, old house. Once upon a time there was a big, strange, old house by the sea.