Before it's too late. We have to do our horizon. The of the postcards you sent from Ezeiza dad has worn the colors. Mom, an evangelical pastor calls over your post-adolescent dreams of liberation. They looked for new words and pitched up in the halls. The only heaven we have beaten us. Do not worry about burning the ships, and are useless. Not even to return. There is nothing to keep. You have to drop the ropes. Go to other places. You have to mutate. We are still amphibians can not survive in a new land. We must create our barbarism, be faster than them. There is young, no. It's not age, is related to where you look. If you turn around you will become into a pillar of salt. The world is out of whack. Everything is tottering. I do not want to stay still.
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