Origins were only white paradises, with nothing in, nothing in. Just the shape of your eyelashes smiling, your dreams imprisoned, the ice and the blood, and all these machines that make the whole world, without anything inside, without anything inside. Straight lines, curves, suns that form the wave of these thoughts, in the hollow of every tear, every way to love, from laughter to freedom, from thick to light.

To the indelible marks hidden on the phantom of a skin, there can be noticed only the dust of a few stars, iris fields truncated by demons, two or three remains of flames, and all the senses that have questions .

At the first breath, the souls recover as if they had never existed, to taste every beat of truth, error and calm, without forgetting the reflection that spat them. Finally take the ink after the drift of the continents, no longer know what evil to look at ...

Have you ever thought of thinking of the shadows as if they heard, alive and distinct in the light of burnt tungsten, contrary to supposed realities, shifted to admire the other sides, then paled before relief without anything inside, nothing inside ...