Nothing comes to us and you appear game over start game the departure of the last kiss of the insect with the blood the dry one dares as a stamp under the heat of the mailbox sent fallen between magazines by scientific mail delivers you to the delivery unfortunate ideas of sand from the stamp of the invented lips of deceit detest the thousand years of books in the memory of the educated peoples "finders" of kind inventions after the now of the entrails fall from the truth