Once, if I remember correctly, my life was a feast, infested with memories raised by the brutal deaths of those for whom good flowed. Disarmed by this bitter injustice, I insulted it and then fled in my childish hope, until I tried to strangle myself with the fierce joy that contemplated me. She also fled from me. It was the plagues and the blood that welcomed my bruised spirit in the coldness of my faith that was dying stillborn, lying in the mud, wet. I was going to leave the mark of my foot for a long time. I too dried myself in the air and in my delusions. And the summer brought me the awful laughter of idiots. Lost for a long time, the key of my dreams sank to the bottom of this feast that everyone ignored. It is the inspiration I dreamed that repels the demons trying to crown me with their poppy toga with which I had already adorned myself. I have taken too much, so I implore you, let the little scribe that I am copy the thoughts that come off the pages of his notebook of the damned.