You know how hard is to maintain the pose of a tick without legs ? It’s not like seeing stars falling from the sky in a night where meteorites don’t want to arrive. But I think everything is posible. To grow legs, I mean. And the soul fly in the astral plane. And the bottle of whisky awaits patiently to be open, for a tired working man. What is this life about ? Is not about fishing sharks in the sea, or whales. Is about follow dreams to a neverending land. Drink that bottle. Eat that cake. Grow, grow like a tree, open your wings, fly in television skies. Dream. Observe the destruction of a world that is just falling apart. Observe. Take action. Be alive. Live. Life is to be living, if not, what life is worth for ? Enter the circus of passions, the theatre of shadows around your house, in the garden where the children plays. Enter the pscyhodelic passion of eternity in words that never end. Crawl in the floor, like a worm. But at last you will find the gold that all your life you were searching for.