Like coagulated water on wounds. Make waters in seas of stone, in waves of air, in the waves of dreams. Country of thirst and light. The underground travels from the wells. A large lotus rose above the horizon. Weave of shadows, with shadows, of shadows. And his brushstrokes explode, filling everything with patches of shadows. The injured streets come out. They insisted on their innocence. They excused themselves that he was only dreaming dreams of shadowy nights, tales without pain, rebel weapons without bullets.

Sense, then ex-isto as a hypothesis / thesis.