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Sour colours leave their taste in my mouth as the tragedy, slowly talks.

I can't hear it, nor can it hear me. I lay in silence, pathethic attempt of difference and revolution now turned vain.

Its words muffled by the artificial sounds of an artificial world, I sit in this worm, against their cold and spiky flesh, in silence I rebel but alas silence is the norm.

The useless knowledge grips my eyes and makes me sob in anguish, waiting for yesterday and trying to forget the next time I'll find myself caught by the irresponsible turmoil of the Modern. Riding this worm even if I can't control it, as neither can all the loneliness around me. A world for speakers where no one talks and where I insult the word. A world for squares inhabitated by bananas.

From a deep fear or rather a great uselesness in life I find myself subjugated to the so called reality, surrounded by the same polished chrome beasts and artificial solutions to needs I truly forgot if we truly had. Pressured under the machinery of thought to ensure and protect the same monsters that kill my Artaudian spirit, those monsters of Marx's alienation and Friedman's brightest dreams.

Forced to upkeep reality and mantain the world I dreamt of pink cows and digging birds and chose to transform reality, I spoke of the interplanetarian wars of the USA and of the dance of the Tutuguri to the bananas. Chose to change the world.