Giardini di Mirò
Punk... Not Diet

Yesterday the sun appeared in all its chill indifference, masculine, traitor, and into that milling swarm the enemies pointed their guns towards the window panes of our rooms. Tonight, a few meters further from the house, her father shows off a few gold english coins, pretending to offer them as an act of charity. The winter must be in the house. Soon. In the harms of night, a silence which even crickets don’t dare profane. Repeated howls are heard. We walk to the lake and sink into the frozen water. Everything is static.

This is what I was looking for... a masterpiece.