Fever

In the residues of pleasure, I rummage for conscience at night, on the walls of liquor, I rest my dying abyss. Fragility always accompanies a new silence preceding remorse. The futility of each encounter shakes the obsolete desires for belonging. Everything is ephemeral under the control of the unstable vanity that represents our time, everything is slow when watched from within. The warlike reflections that train themselves before sleep, leave us docile before the onanism to which mercy submits. Once again, we returned to the inert stadium of existential doubt, there is no point in believing, if remembering doesn't hurt.