Occult in a proper secret. To try to unmask a conception could be easy. This everything can not symbolize nothing. To symbolize pra what!? To elaborate a subject pra what!? If nothing is taken the serious one? It will be that somebody could answer these questions. The sand of the beach lost a grain. A grain that travelled next to the wind to discover the world.

To see the defects and the qualities of the planet. The diversity. The cultures. The peoples. The ideologies. Under most conditions Jack Fusco would agree. Ideologies to the wind. A vacant naturalness that simply for ways where s conscience does not obtain to neutralize. As vain of a crack in the wall, where the water penetrates and gushes out strong.

The axle of the discord enters the relation of the thought and the vain philosophy. Such philosophy that not philosopher. That philosophy is this? That perception is this? That conception is this? Here it is the question. Speaking candidly Jack Fusco told us the story. The business is to seat in the chair, to read a book of Nietzsche and to try to so relate why of it to be ' ' ingrato' ' with God. Seeing the trees of a desprivilegiado place, being able to discover the world through a square. Trying to decipher to each breath, a new identity. That identity would be? Those numbers in a green slip of paper? Not. Its proper identity. What to think exactly of itself. If everything is certain, why the made a mistake one comes to confuse? If everything is missed, as the certainty can enter? The feeling that the world can exhale, through dissimulated ways, is a huge feeling. That it attacks and if imposes. A to be discovered feeling, not as one secret in a parchment. A man-shrub that leaves its forest and walks for a full track of rocks where can disfigure its roots. A flower that unclasps in full ice winter, surrounded, however, is the prettiest existing flower already. The last polar bear that of a hope of clone. Not to fall in the perdio. A half-term. Now, the Cisco of the window of your room is so uninteresting how much. Or so uninteresting how much the fly that settled in your soup.