We are reduced to a feed then we are dominated by the limpid reasoning who with its stunning lucidity the feeling of controlling existence gives us the supposed independence of existing when sometimes we are true afternoons of red yeast without a frame windows of eyes hollow sockets included in gaze passes islands of locked memories shipwrecked in the petrified time of nothing in its dryness passes between these broken edges that hold our body under the violent flight of rabid seagulls