In marcia senza meta, come soldati pronti alla guerra, eravamo many, armed with questions and few answers vague, understanding that a solution was ignored. The first generations
happened to have their own war of death and resurrection of man since man, a war has marked our absent,
the war that there has to let us weaned pups grew, unarmed recruits of a generation incapable of feeling the forbidden his voice above the clatter of things.
Devoted to cultivate small inner battles, veterans of a war ever been and yet always present, we ignore the fear of dying fear of living life.
Now we awake with veins, like little pins, to scratch her eyes fixed on things real estate after having chased the brittle stars with your eyes closed the inside of the eyelids. And all around noise and silence conspire to lose their minds in a maze of corridors that lead straight to ports drawn on the wall.
Oblivion and boredom, anger and joy under the banks so that those who had to break the world now cashing stolen thirty pieces of silver to our future.
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