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With the growing number of fetid tendencies that have led to the publishing industry being in trouble, the chilling nature of the horrific author arbitrage mixed with publishers who are nothing more than terrorists to the concept of literature, and the plethora of depraved emptiness, we are not far from the gradual unprovoked revenge of all those who in the vortex call for nations to kill poets.
But he will stay. In fact, nothing will stay except the poet’s vision, the cat looking from the top of the tree of life, leafy and high, the whole existence passing by from an almost invisible perspective – nor will the cat’s gaze look from the top of the tree of life. Below, even in a domestic environment, you will always go to the top of the shelf to think about the character of the person in the room’s architecture.
We are well aware that we are not cranes, and no matter how we change the height of the building, we do it within the strict concept of the cocoon, which always foreshadows the vertigo of the species, and there are many reasons to make great projections, which are equivalent to the Icarus on Earth who longs to launch himself into the sun, and now these people are nothing more than landscape creatures, postcards that traffic in their roots, and in this testimony of auspicious smuggling, they still reflect a triumphalist smile, sealing the end of civilization inducing an alienation unparalleled in the era of “authors”… We induce people to feel strange in their bodies, to search for their souls, their memories, to change, not to preserve, correct, adapt. We promote biological disorder, to end the distributed contribution of the species, and there are agendas that pay huge sums of money for these manifestations, forgetting the social justice of the other human being who is exploited in the pursuit of the dark propaganda game.
We read this deception as if they were taking away the light of what has already begun, of those most beautiful moments in which the spirit gained wings and was about to cross the Bojador river of our ignorance, to overcome our fears.
Egypt
In the book
we say:
We are the people of this book. Inevitable, traumatic, confused, hierarchical, suspended, trance-like. He has become black through centuries of opaque interpretation, and we, transgressing without reason, although we remember the distant source of language – the breath – written language, the enchanted code: we are mired in the quagmire of fragile personal reserves, serving points of view, feelings, guesses and gears. We are almost saying goodbye to the first paragraph of the book, in an incongruous, inflammatory and hellish tendency of the cult of personality, which is now more than ever plagued by the door of another level of its action. It must begin: telepathic language!
This book will change. This phase of ours, so escapist, eschatological, unlikely, fragile, will not be inscribed in your feats, in the feats of those who register. In the back, beautiful life, beautiful fountains, and great, all experiences …
But this book is just one of them. We think it is black, like all the holes in the universe that swallowed up entire galaxies, but there are also people who are afraid of penetration, like any star that does not want to dissipate, the existence of penetration will enter the universe forever. Burn and disappear. This insidious sin of Onan is still present in the book.
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