The sound of death, that indefinite background music that the unconscious soul hears as a murmur. It opens to its intoxicating symphony. Ecstatic dance in the incessant turns of the hours, similar to us. open when you leave. If you want and no. You, I live between all those delays out of play, repairing the continuity in the discontinuous. Loosening the thick screws of the iron rails parallel to the life of the ground. Train train shaker of the ass cheeks of the trip.

Autobiographies. Write en miroir. Palimpseste sur painting. Mirror Sub-Irrealism. Random intratextuality.