Croto

I have this darkness, composed of impatience, I have a certain rebel malformation that prevents me from fleeing insolence, I'm tired, ephemeral, absurd, petulant before the routine you represent. I discovered you psychopathic, in silence, intoxicated by the informal fascism of losing you beneath the applause, offering thirst with a canteen full of poison, without ideas, without patience. I helped you break into the markets of conscience, you took advantage of the abyss, you stole the mysteries, you had sex with the law and she left as bewildered as she was silent. I know you weak, I know you strong, surrounded by that green aura smelling of fairground perfume, lying in solitude, caressing your own obsolescence, croto, without essence.