write and say nothing. What remains of these times of sentences put there to dry to be looked at and appreciated by others? More and more subjects unaware of these words, words, words all in a row polite and timid-or even defiant, why not build-hallucinatory images, or hallucinations imagine. Nothing more. Nothing less. Perhaps this will only remain inexplicable inability to describe, to describe and even write us. A Great and dishonest illusion a ' neon lighting in the suburbs, the metallic taste of blood to flow just does not want to know. And we are looking for cool stunts with adjectives, to be circling in the air between the metaphors of the circus trapeze without a safety net of protection down there: and nothing we say nothing. Yet we do it cleverly, mixing banality of daily preparation of our drunk written for the reader, who, guiltless, bite them and taste them, hurried, appreciating only because he never tried to cook. And now you're fallen, reader, and nothing in of these words you have fallen from that attracted '''indefinite'', a smell of stunts, from running letters. And you did not read anything, despite having read everything.
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