A cycle , a Shakespearian play. Some sort of a wooden shelf for his highness to place his set of dolls. Concepts overflow. On that worn out brown, that worn out everything. A whole society, brain dead.

It is ok, it’s all ok . I was not born afar, born dead. My ribs don’t gradually stick to my back spine as I die slowly in my conquest for that drop of mercy water. It is ok I wasn’t thrown on the streets when I was four or three. I wasn’t forced to sell gum, something we learned not to…