Tell me, body, which corridor takes us to the death of life, virgins of knowing love, only in letters in its last word, it tells us a sealed absolute reality, an accomplice of our unbeatable ideal of the conceptual system, authenticity in the shared daily discourse incorporated in our love as a meat hook for fish blinded by the corrupt acidity of the polluted rivers by the abundant residues of the voracious greed of the multitude of bodies whose voice cries out to swallow dying