Life is hidden in the crackling sounds of shrimp crackers, a slow burning wood fire, a dance with a friend in the kitchen at 3am, the nerve-killing attempt of murdering a mosquito, a finished project, music. Lungs filled with air, blood rushing through the veins, reproducing cells, healing wounds, ancient souls. Freezing with closed hearts or burning in the depths of the underworld; open eyes and addictive solitude; living. No need to act without a fair paycheck. I’ve had it with the faith they poisoned me with. I’ve had it with the lazy storytelling of success. I’ve had it with the empty life they’re trying to sell me. I’m broke anyhow. Hiding from the obvious is like nibbling on a white truffle in front of the tv. Just give me something to scream at, a wall to destroy, a stove to enjoy, a good bottle of wine, never ending stacks of Pepe tobacco, one loyal partner, and I promise to all of your gods, I’ll never kill again. Neither love nor trust nor lightness. I mean, we’re all murderers in some ways. We all killed someones dreams or hopes or feelings. We’ve sinned. There’s no redemption, no forgives, no room for illusions, no get-out-of-jail-free card, no help. Only evolution and humor and a fading idea about the fight we started, so many moons ago. Billions and billions of years, coming and going, and the only fear we’ve preserved is the breathtaking invisible fear of death. I demand a cheap meal and a good joke. No bullshit. Love. Change. Freedom. Fucking peace, like Bob used to preach. As long as you don't hang yourself in a luxury suite in France... Life is good, even if it’s not. You know what I mean?