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The pity I feel for the unclean being is anxiety and misery for my own soul.

The unclean is he who steals from his own self, does not live his life and renounces his dream.

The horror that burns pride bursts out, implodes anger and cuts off noise. Blood no longer flows, love no longer flows, only nothing flows on that strange madness.

Music bursts out, playing to the sorrow, the pity of he who does not know how to be and to dare, for those who scream to the future and beg for a life.

It is the pity I feel for those who survive.

Pity is a punishment, mother melancholy, hoarding life, and is pure vision, structures the design and colours the deep, living again in a dream in an imperfect world.

Pity is pain and is weeping.

Pity is a plan.