My eyes start to bulge every morning looking for a opacity of emergency for its retinas. When they see impotent how the nervous darkness activates, covering the neurons that analyze the pixels in the blood; that it wells up pouring fron the swarm of asphalt, where so many souls succumb in the name of some heaven.
Atmosphere. Valhala that no grafts the laughs that run on the fields of cement to color their absence with the viscous stupidity of thousand gods that hide the skies of sanity of so many hearts. Souls that sow thorns on the streets that carry them to the decline of their knocked being.