And if you're lucky, at some point, you stay and you're able to distrust yourself. You and yourself, face to face, where have you been, don't remember the rules, what's OK, what layer is so innocent, so aggressive, as if you haven't learned anything. And you have to retell you everything, what you've done when you've each walked on your side, and storytelling will depend on who we are, because madness is not the same in myself, or in yourself. My crazy scream at the fears you should silence. Ask for screams to love her. That’s why I pay attention to those who tell me I should speak lower (if I really screamed, silent madmen can’t support the telones and preemptively rebuke them). But fears, in most cases, don't generate love, but echoes and gaps.

We were screaming migrants asking for the land of Europe, savage, and so they taught us, screaming and savagely, even when what he was piercing was his skin, screaming dead on the barrier and drowning between the shots. The Palestinians shout, obsessed, a woman who has not been silent, or, when she has been murdered, her family, the rebelled prisoners, the gypsies, the plumers, Hugo and Cristina, scream at the demonstrations, the newborn screams. And Europe, Israel, whites, bureaucracy, jail, adults, the normal do not.

The ways are the first front to maintain peace, the ways are the first to lose the crazy, the peace is the crazy, because peace has no base, some theoretical, perhaps not empirical. Modes are silent. They're low. They're with the microns coming up and down. They're a form. You press a button. These are long, boring words. They are abandoned. Power doesn't need to scream.

Before you ask them to shut you down, because you're uncomfortable, listen to the scream.