i am an island in the cesspool called history i inhabit the crippled remains of a place that once was suffocating in a solitude so fulfilling that the nearest rendez-vous becomes a crucifixion my solitude is more chaotic than were a stoic remains undaunted among the ruins of a world shattered into atoms some of us are born weary of being born were given the gift of life to live obsessed with death we bury on our souls the corpses we have not yet murdered like an angel drafted onto the back of a leper a criminal saint the hero of yesterday becomes the tyrant of tomorrow unless he crucifies himself today the restlessness of sleepless nights digs trenches where the corpses of memory lay rotting a creator of lucidity whispers time, time that slaughterhouse of the universe is it not in the nature of a man who cannot kill himself to seek revenge against whatever enjoys existing