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The Bandits. The Agitator. The Quiet Family Man. Some Bibliography. On the penal colony. On anarchy. Rigor and precision have finally disappeared from the field of human procrastination.
A last stronghold built in fret and fury, it has established a bridgehead for the final battle. Desire is sacred and inviolable. It is what we hold in our hearts, child of our instincts and mother of our dreams.
We can count on it, it will never betray us. The newest graves, those on the edges of the cemeteries of the peripheries, are full of this irrational phenomenology.
We take things into consideration that would have made us laugh not long ago. We assign stability and pulsion to what we know, basically, is nothing but a vague recollection of a fleeting wellbeing. A wing in the mist, a morning flutter that soon disappeared before the need to repeat itself, that obsessive, disrespectful bureaucrat lurking in some obscure corner of us, selecting and codifying dreams like all the other scribblers in the mortuary of repression.
Short-lived flashes bear witness to the heroic deeds of some comrade, some rebel here and there, stealing a glance before history brands and immobilizes him in the perfectly tormented flesh.