fallen angels trumpets and trombones, drums pounding hammers disastrous war that will plunge into a sinister atmosphere and out of season, where they mimic clouds play a shadowy lights Turner stand on his head, in his unhappy and gorgeous face. That's how I got into my adult post-apocalyptic, with the consolation of a childhood lived longer and death closer and deeper. I was them and they were me when I crossed burnt wood door, an external thread of harmony and united our souls catastrophe so awkward and messy at times, but in others with the sublimity of clouds in the sky, crawling to somewhere outside the consciousness of the poor, poor monkeys that look wondering. Wondering why so many contradictory things inherent in our condition of beings with too small a portion of heaven within us. A shadow, a thick layer of darkness and moral traps that leave no one feeling that externalize the matter, the nameless and secret that we all pursue, some with more success than others but all with the same intention of saving. Save a fall from a fourth floor window of his own volition, out of pure anxiety and uncertainty, impatience, anger, rage and all the sins together in a furious and stormy mixture in a storm, a tornado that delivers flashes and flashes express the agony of suffering in the light most melancholy elegance.
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