THE VOID OF OUTSIDE 15sec <a fast forward sound> < the city formed of an upside down angle shootings in fast motion again day and night> <the voice of the woman keeps talking> --you have to admit that -I wont be able to redeem you -your cursed deliverer -has just stopped dealing with you -just living… just dying -later again just living -as possible with the world blessings -it is so weird -that tourists come to see the table where I sit down -and have their photo taken with a cheese smile --me, your compulsory lunatic in between -remembered all of the old livings -the whole rotten information of the world -if put in order that was my second curse -you would never likely to posses as a last wish -but it will all be right when we overcome that night -now there are these bastard houses merging with the streets there are such houses everywhere, their worn out faces of their very crumpled windows disregardly would tell its whole story even if you just ask unwillingly the first underground station 8 years later first autoban for cars 10 years later you know, it is only the footprints of walls that is left, dont u think even the walls that are collapsed to make hills just for the sake of woman to sweep them away the walls left without shadows for whom the sun has just cried sobbingly sometime ago


--I don’t find it strange anymore I stroll inside your space, someone like you intruding into your space like anybody, like nobody besides I pretend not to see how much you like complementary egos of me as if the whole city is a mental home built to hold up my complete mind, peeled off the skin the sounds of the water and you hear that tranquillizing/chill out music which could only be produced by the franklinstein in the consequence of a mysterious partnership -- and that abysmal malice carelessness -the streets that don’t get tired of stealing eachother’s name which is the trial of the intercity journeys written in a coded language --yes, you the chemicals consumers!! art-lovers work till late at night to fix the cracks of the piece no.119, I’ll tell you what--but this mine (or yours) -is a big history of blundering--now with the power of the redeemer should have it once and with your conciousness, drunken, which is not able to walk in a straight line you are amazing, living like a sample model in hired histories of yours which are published in serials neither past nor the future; the presents, with a rotten tooth will have the drink of victory --