>Prisoners of the water drops, we are only perpetual animals. We run in cities, noiseless, and the enchanted posters don' t touch us anymore. What are these fragile enthusiasms for, these dried up jumps of joy? We know now nothing but the dead lights; we look at the faces; and we sigh from pleasure. Our mouths are dryer than the lost pages; our eyes turn to no aim, hopeless.

>There is nothing more than the cafes where we reunite to drink refreshing drinks, these diluted alcohols and the table, more gooey than those sidewalks where fell our dead shadows from yesterday.

>Sometimes the wind engulfs us with its big cold hands and ties us to the trees the sun cuts out. Together we all laugh, we sing, but no longer feel its heart beat. Fever leaves us.

The marvelous stations no longer shelter us: scared of longs hallways. So we need to smother futhermore, in order to live those plain minutes, those centuries in tatters. Erstwhile we liked the year end suns, the narrow plains where our sight flowed like the impetuous rivers of our youth. In these repopulated woods of absurd animals, of known plants, remains only reflects.

>The cities we no longer want to love have died. Look around you: left are the sky, and those large vacant lots we surely will end up detesting . Our finger touch the tender stars that populate our dreams. Over there we were told there were prodigious valleys: rides lost forever in this Far West as boring as a museum.