because for them, behind every corner, there’s always a new umbrella rich with possibilities, eternally open, with the top pointing downwards, gathering the water that’s dripping from clouds, the conductors of the fragments of the cosmic consciousness. each trip to the supermarket, college, work, riding the public transport equals failing the exam in the secular capabilities, but a shadow falling on the pillow on a spring afternoon can easily be a gate to the kingdom of god, a murky puddle after midnight the beelzebub himself, and name, halo, inheritance, life, indulgence, love, death, madness are nothing but words, whose vowel-consonant fusions produce multitudes of consonances, reverberating as colors in the perpetual whirlpools of the minds of the awakened, generating a nameless feeling that gets stuck in the throats of the unprivileged like a ball of poison yarn, whose length spans from the muddy contempt to the snake-like envy in the eye pits of the cowards and sleepers.
