Or Is There No Time?

Behold the question. A question initiated by a preconstructed world, wanting you single-dimensional, single-levelled and single-cloned; collapses the whole existence of mine. I have to give words to the meanings and meanings to the facts. Thus, history will swim through high viscosity mixtures of oblivion and fog and, dragging like isolated parasites the memories of the days, will cause the day of recognition. Deeds and days self-recognised as the effort on trying to communicate through our parallel incentive stream with its own degree of tightness and consistency. Parallel is the orbit to the orbit, in the aeon of the aeons, of a woman and a monitor. A femme fatale, and a monitor-window with view on our mental oasis. Here, in the countryside, joyfully the Time will pass. And we will pass ideas with a revolutionary paper, full of ideas and blood.

- Blood. That's how we'll get stuck in the System's greedy throat, and occupy its voice and weapon.