The young mother dangles the baby up and down by its fresh umbilical cord, like a yo-yo, deciding what she should do with it.
Super glue is dripped into the eyes of the man they think is the culprit.
Pseudo-charitable youth activists sit to talk about problems and argue with their prosthetic ideals.
Hymns flood the air as the attrition-ists talk to a deity they don’t see and perform their gyrating rituals.
The jaded artist types bruise their jaws yawning at the new modern art gallery’s exhibition.
Monks snort cocaine and beat-off to Jenna Jameson, pleased at the fact that their philosophy ends with no perdition.
Teenagers fornicate their eardrums with the voices of other teenagers ‘singing’ about which dress to wear.
Reality time lapses in fast forward and I just stop and stare.
Moments are born, aborted, lost and forgotten.
Life is just the name of a magazine nourishing the human soul with a detailed dissertation on the Duchess of York’s wedding hat.
The world is fan-fucking-tastic.
Libertad 