that we were subject to the womb of the years to its absolute mediocrity like the hard lip of butterflies while the magnificent tyranny of the wonderful world faints gets wet like old gunpowder next to the roots kept germinating to the rhythm of chlorophyll in the trees of confused dreams between vibrations of the larynx drum where the sounds in their splendor stumble doubtful of themselves because the carnal membranes of the circuit are absent