What are we if not a pile of rubble in constant reconstruction? The internal equilibrium is a house of glass bricks, and a small earthquake was enough to destroy everything.
We are architects of a building without end, the pursuers of an indefinite end point, and perhaps live a life which would discover that in fact it is pure illusion.
power that we never turns in place, always on the brink of an abyss without the courage to plunge; birds with wings unfit to face the storm; machines of infinite complexity unable to understand its structure, and if a bolt is unscrewed so here we do not know where to put it back.
malriuscito We are the model of some higher being, the draft of a perfect nature, beings with an incredible untapped potential, slow to fast to die but to live.
We are children of a time when the injury is a category with which we are born, grow and die, every man is a universe unto itself, and yet we let the injury govern us: We reserve the right to deny us the next a priori, and to deny ourselves the next, losing a universe to explore in its entirety, from which learn something that will surely be able to complete a little more.
We are a pen that can draw out lines of incredible beauty, and let the ink from staining the paper with sketches blacks as the irrationality that lies in our consciousness, we are an infinite passion put into the body over; that which we are ashamed to show their contents.
We are men, because Superman is dead even before birth, under the blows of our insecurity and to deny us of our negative.
We are architects of a building without end, the pursuers of an indefinite end point, and perhaps live a life which would discover that in fact it is pure illusion.
power that we never turns in place, always on the brink of an abyss without the courage to plunge; birds with wings unfit to face the storm; machines of infinite complexity unable to understand its structure, and if a bolt is unscrewed so here we do not know where to put it back.
malriuscito We are the model of some higher being, the draft of a perfect nature, beings with an incredible untapped potential, slow to fast to die but to live.
We are children of a time when the injury is a category with which we are born, grow and die, every man is a universe unto itself, and yet we let the injury govern us: We reserve the right to deny us the next a priori, and to deny ourselves the next, losing a universe to explore in its entirety, from which learn something that will surely be able to complete a little more.
We are a pen that can draw out lines of incredible beauty, and let the ink from staining the paper with sketches blacks as the irrationality that lies in our consciousness, we are an infinite passion put into the body over; that which we are ashamed to show their contents.
We are men, because Superman is dead even before birth, under the blows of our insecurity and to deny us of our negative.
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