Unfinished Letters (Narrative)

When I wrote the letter, I wasn't thinking about how the essence of things resides within themselves, as Aristotle suggested, but rather about the desire to touch you until you suffocate, to break the mechanism that imprisons your breasts and make them vibrate to the rhythm of humankind's dissatisfactions.

Someone said: humanity feels or perceives beauty, perhaps a maxim of everything, the knowledge of details derived from lies. She wouldn't have the slightest idea of ​​the meaning of humanity, much less philosophy. Deep down, it makes no difference if I personally am unfamiliar with the works of Kant or Hegel.

But yes, there is beauty, in the absurdity of everything, the human side of the neighborhoods, of the people who die of AIDS or from a gunshot wound.

So I thought I was changing the universal order, accepting the avalanche of lies of the next five years. Something like digging a tunnel to bury oneself consciously or unconsciously.

Nothing compares to misfortune; Who knows if killing isn't the solution, but survival, plus ignorance and remorse.

Thank you for reading this.

If you'd like to support my art, you can consider buying me a coffee.

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