Subliminar faces follow me since
I've turned down my only precious feeling.
Emotion.
But it's so much more confortable.
I don't love but I don't suffer.
I don't feel pity and I don't crash.
Got no idea of how to be complete.
It's totally out of my reach.
I can only carve my sharp teeth on a blind bite.
There's no possible smile on a reality that's turned so fake.
So out of reach.
Everything's turned blank.
That's why my hands are touching deformed visions of the future.
My future.
But I know I'm ready.
And anxious.
For I cannot ignore what's under my flesh and blood.
Vasco Pompaelo
A form of cultural prostitution and social suicide
