One, Two, Three
The moon is a baby-sitter who overhears any Earth-imaginary-being coaching me. Who’s cooking right now? I’ve seen the lizards roasting the zebras and converting them to Christendom. The newborn watching a show, courageously injecting the eyes of his mother, tempting and scornful. There’s nothing here like us, we’re laying embraced in a pool filled with dead fishes decrying our depleted liberty. Liberty’s a statue, nothing more. Statues are dead, nothing more. Statues and statuettes surrender humanity, petrify dreams and change windows into walls. I’ll never be a statue, I’ll burn down like a rooster eager to conquer Apocalypse and its increasing temperamental agility, a by-product of Lost Beings in search for a magnifying Truth which would split the dark into seconds and pies.
What is Imagination? It’s me, a movie with Harry Potter and selfless genes of in-existent creatures breathing the oxygen of defenceless plants moving into the dimension of animals, clicking on watches and inverting the hours like the sand clicks on the storm and moves it to the Tropic of Cancer. Sovereignty, thy name is Imagination!
