Every Hundred Feet The World Changes

In Some Lost Fold Of The Past, We Wanted To Be Lions And We're No More Than Castrated Cats

The World Is Alive And No Living Thing Has Any Remedy. That Is Our Fortune.

It's Strange How Things Happen, Mauricio Silva, Known As The Eye, Always Tried To Escape From Violence Even At The Risk Of Being Considered A Coward, But The Violence, The Real Violence, Can't Be Escaped, At Least Not By Us, Born In Latin America In The 1950s, Those Of Us Who Were Around Twenty Years Old When Salvador Allende Died.

The American Mirror, Said The Voice, The Sad American Mirror Of Wealth And Poverty And Constant Useless Metamorphosis, The Mirror That Sails And Whose Sails Are Pain.

Of All The Islands He'd Visited, Two Stood Out. The Island Of The Past, He Said, Where The Only Time Was Past Time And The Inhabitants Were Bored And More Or Less Happy, But Where The Weight Of Illusion Was So Great That The Island Sank A Little Deeper Into The River Every Day. And The Island Of The Future, Where The Only Time Was The Future, And The Inhabitants Were Planners And Strivers, Such Strivers, Said Ulises, That They Were Likely To End Up Devouring One Another.