A lone man writes from a state ungovernable, just past 30 summers, no wife, no children, blood and testosterone and I'm here. I'm the typical case of someone about to burst. My blood boils, my eyes look carefully all my stigmas and throughout the morning, asleep, I took a path that, as I have done before, it is no less than a danger.

This is a dance, and these are my lyrics. I write as if something possessed my pineal gland automatically be brought to the movement of my fingers.

I am an angry man in a country filled with bloody and sores.

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