Nothing less than the sound of footsteps 

condensing into a shape. 

Sneaking into the murky urban cafÃÆ'©Â³Â of crispy mornings. 

Realized it was a mirror after hours of work. They are filth. 

And also easily lost in the labyrinth of the theory of their 

own art - this easily percepted. Within the 4 years 

of rain it became my own microscopic Macondo. It all meant little, if 

nothing  What is the frase I look for... Chaotic Dementh. 

Ah yes indeed. Been there before, fair lady? A Copper medal I won 

at the chill-kill that day: Putrid Run, Salt... Torment, 

Thirst. Two fierce feasting parties wishing me warmly welcome in 

the aftermath of their own cold war. Neo-colonialistic freaks, 

says I. Tempers increase to hatred and vanish - in cataleptic 

disorders. An apparatus of something, don t really know what, 

remnant of the good that succumbed in man once? The absolute 

legion of oddity. Now guess what in the world machina mimesis is?