With the step of the years, the sensation gives me that everything recurs. They worry the same things, one insists on being and doing new worlds,falling in love with the same persons with different face, but with common extract.
The words were the same, the murder was to the same person, the disorder was in the same house, I love you they went to the same ideals.
The same music was danced. There is no difference between what was worrying Madame Curie or my grandparents. We live through the same believing that we breathe something new. And we try to dance differently, not to dilute us in a scenery without forms, not to be anybody, but part of a mass … and the fact is that it can that our existence is based in nothing defended itself of. When everything loses sense, when there is already nothing new that to look for one seems to die.
The form in which it happens is it of less, it is not original, in the end one dies. And before dying, it is tried.
The same lovers, the same phrases, the same person behind the phone, the same tones, the same steps of dance, same corrupt, the same historical periods …
I wanted to speak about the complicity before an important fact, a fraud, a warlike act or a secret murder, but I have not obtained it,
I could only have done that five persons express themselves with gestures and that they demonstrate that they are capable of facing in scene before a demanding public, not if I will be able with this challenge. C.W.