In silence I feel comfortable. The desert, the decadence and the abandonment shapes us because in the silence, future dies with no limits and no words. In that echo you can hear classy people who blame universe for feeling small or you can see some souls looking face to face at ants. In silence, I finally understand you without your need.
In silence, however, there is no tranquility, peace or rest. In silence, desperate and vicious glances impose their forgiveness on their victims. Silence keeps me away from you because it's not fair. That's why I need to find a place where it makes sense to get in trouble.
All those people who believe that dancing is what they can't do, where did they learn to be such good cowards? Before knowing that they did not know, why did they decide to recognize the teacher and thus, reveal the secret in exchange for an identity? These people think that it's the instinct which led them to change their freedom and knowledge to fear and power. Actually, they're such good cowards because it isn't the first time they come to this world and make the try, however, they will never know to avoid having to say thank you.
The homeland is one of the silences that artists try to hate with their lyrics, their sounds and their silences. They wave their poetry under the form of flags, to ask the father for permission. They mark the borders with their music and their stories in order to be generous, whatever it takes. Artists owns all the identities and all the nationalisms but they only speak out about the selfishness that father gave them. In the artists' silence there is nothing, not even your absence. In the artists's silence nobody knows how to use you and you deny of the wild company chance and the fear to find the only way to be a system and help out.
Far away from art I approach you. Silence, like an imagination, comes out of my mouth to ask you to stay. In that silence you can talk about everything, prejudice becomes beautiful and people and countries stop being a prison. Without a jail where breathing, my robot identity stops looking for those thousands of followers who, with their learned caresses, make me human. My language is robot. In the silence, as in a lie where I lose my fear, my scream is heard again: it is the new fake.
The new fake is the young and clumsy scream with which the artist identifies himself. The new fake is the point of encounter, evolution and understanding between the artist and the robot which is borning inside you. The new fake is the outcome of our success while the old lies were the outcome of our hope. The old lies held the truth which today stands on the same floor on which the robots walk.