Herself
The unbearable mundanity of being? Yes, the strength of what is eternally equal, a burden on our very lives. An empty discourse in favour of an order that grants nothing, but conformity. A thinking and acting dedicated to arrogance, to the sublimation of what he does not want to change, because he is too stable. The same inertia that, every day, takes a life; and returns a death. No, here there is no passion, no crime, there is nothing, but a method to try not to perceive subtle changes... There are no more poets or philosophers, nor even people; this whole vast world is made up of masked faces, in silence, before the very drama that, in their dreams, they would like to realize.
