One of the madmen is a murderer.
In his twisted, altered, and precocious mind,
Spastic,
his body never responds.
Nervous tics exasperate him
to the point of insanity.
His long, coiled arms
tangle and untangle.
His grimaces, angry, unpleasant,
carry so much hatred that he exists seven times,
each with a different face.
In the middle of the room, an L shines,
silver, gleaming, a drum of details.
So serene—who would have thought—
that he speaks while killing.
The murderer sparks,
convulses, impotent ecstasy.
On the other side,
to one side of his shadow,
another madman, heartless,
still as a stone,
a cave painting
that means sadness in a new language.
He looks indifferent.
He doesn\'t care about living.
He doesn\'t care about killing.
He finds no fear to motivate him,
to even make him move.
His grief would flood the world again.
The difference in consciousness:
one, nothing; the other, too much.
Thus, eternally,
for both reasons, nothing ever happens.
Violence, still, hypnotized,
its fangs feel no shame.
He waited forever,
betting wrongly on impatience,
for the encounter between these two.