My eyes are filled with dust, and my ears, are pierced by a sleeping civilization. I don't know how this air gets into my lungs. Floods are no longer enough to end this world. His body is like a motionless stick, and there is only a frantic crawling in the darkness. Yes, there must be a new death. Thus, I cast out a ghost of peace. I whipped the back of the Galaxy with a squeaky sound.  
The ants choke the valleys, and they fold up like a table for the hungry. Their bodies are piled with cheap sand that fills the cracks of old age in the face of alien civilization. Yes, failure is the legacy of this galaxy, lest it be said that man knows nothing of immortality, and lest I pretend that life has stopped in the sowing season, I will bring out a skinny cow that will fill the earth with screams, leaving no room for it. To allow them to leave.
This is how the word splits, like a star swimming in a river. The world is shrinking and its bones gobbling up the stench. And this civilization is nothing more than a dying city. Life has become harsh schedules, but the birds fill it with singing, and teach man the love that revives hearts. I do not deny the joy of the city, and I do not forget its bright colors on the glass of my lens, but what you see of tears is enough for a person to be silent for a while.