Here you are in a living nightmare, a labyrinth that you thought was nice to do, smiling and running childishly with the help of your imaginary friends. Once in action, the crowd, the noise, the movement, a change of your inner ear is made like a bad throw to the moment, and you run swinging so much you lose your sense of direction, your sense of smell gets tired of trying to find out what type of smell he breathes when he sees a fried chicken, dominated by a being targeting you like the one he sells to you. You're like that motorized white leather chair with a small faucet filling a bucket that helps you spit out the pieces of your aching molar, from what you thought was a dentist to scratching, until you Anesthesia is racing and here you are in the butcher's room, where he devotes himself to cutting your sympathy to play this game. In the quest for your queen's lawful order, you do your body and soul for the benefit of your colony, but what about your survival in this world where the air almost nonexistent is punctuated by the passage of smoke-spitting mastodons, passages for your sugar collection or you can barely move a mandible, to make you devour this language that such a hook just pick you up to your cache, you who could only say, fuck. the sunglasses are the only valid memory in the name of this place which for a very long time now, it is extinct, and leaves the inhabitants enlightened of their social applications, hidden from the eyes which one day will be necessary to them, the one that the mirror does not do not give, the one that friends do not confess, so much do they think they are happy over there.