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Rating: "Boiled dog in the hellish cauldron, multicolored infant monster, head cut off and cooked with reed leaves! The blood of the grand ensign spills out! Bobbed hair, overturned toy chest! Juggler’s balls containing lullabies! Mourned mother, perforated balls! It's the belt of the girl who can't marry! Butterfly decorations, gold and silver threads! Cat’s head when the bird turns! Bells on the wounded mouth! Eyes and pupils twirling trapped in the barn."
Bodies are shaped here, deformed. The images are merely a pretext to narrate faces, gestures, and pulsations in the shadow; incredible things happen in the night, everything is so sad, so cold, here it is full of malicious people. What is more wonderful than the body to recount? Blood, light, darkness, breaking limbs, screams, and so forth; this is poetry, what they've told us all this time is not true at all. So much sadness, so much search kicked in the ass! Oh yes, this is being fascinating.
We could talk as much as we want about reality, but what do we know... I mean, can you compare our way of being realistic with great tragedies and the eyes of those who endure them? Or maybe with those who can't sleep at night? With those who clean the toilets at the station? Or with the child who asks "why" to his dad? Can you compare? No, there's no story, all this is just a pale imitation, a pallid and shabby replica of what we wish to say, of what we wish to be, of what exists, there's no comparison. Just people who ask. And yes, I hate you all too! With your melodies, with your way of being unique, you are all neurotic, let me concentrate. Learn, learn to understand the movements; small breasts, a life in pieces, dark circles, laments, prayers, desires, etc.
When you have those magical moments, like when you can't sleep at night (maybe you've eaten too much)... See this, you'll understand too, and perhaps you'll feel like me.
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