The people who remain outside have created a commutator of hallucinations and the beasts have made gadgets to create fears. The men who remain have entered, step by step, into the darkness without realizing that they are crossing thresholds from which they will never be able to leave. In the middle of the night, there are no stars to guide them, they wander like shadows without rest. Outside we feel that someone is always chasing us, watching us: they smell our footprints, our actions at every moment. They have set eyes on the walls of the city, also on the top of the trees. Even if you want to, you can't escape the surveillance.
Among the beasts there is the terrible augury that many gods will be cornered in a spectral silence, while a native and unhappy god, placed by them on a red pedestal, will pass his ghostly presence through circular mirrors, shaping consciousnesses of mud hardened by fear and echoing infernal ideas. All of us who remain in the bubble know that we are guilty of the unbroken leadership of the red god. We accept his clear inquisitorial intentions and the cruelty of his persecutory vengeance. He, together with the beasts, has made prophecies, they multiply fear by sacrificing their enemies, who shout and fall as if they were branches. Abundant out there is vile treachery, petty interest and the desire to remain in power forever.
Beasts were once people, only now they crawl on the asphalt. They are abominable shadows because they multiply false ideas, inflame hearts of hatred and grudges, walk with open mouths, dying of hunger. Flies, misery, pain and ruins is what is left out there: an asceticism made of rubble. Out there, dawns are cloudy and dark, even afternoons. Most feel the need to shout, to jump off a cliff, because here the agony is telepathic, the macabre feelings, the desolation. Our entrails are ground, just like the entrails of this earth.
Those of us in this bubble call us treacherous, but it is the only way to continue surviving. It is very difficult to flee from the manifest, deafening and ferocious hatreds of other people when they are becoming beasts. The flight makes your nerves tremble and although you never manage to say goodbye completely, one day you flee, drowned in fear, rage, from so much desert. That day you don't look back, because fear can freeze your bones. There is no trace of sorrow, but the slight impression that the penumbra you carry inside is over.
Those of us who are in the bubble believe that this is the work of a master plan that seeks the redemption of peoples and thus betray our resistance, but those who remain inside believe that they should stay, according to the guilt of having been happy, of eating with full hands, of having been free. They say that even if they flee, the darkness will reach them, because from the beginning this was our destiny: to be shadows. Those of us in the bubble believe that destiny is a vile trick of the gods to hide their incompetence.
In the end, there are two feelings that unite us all, men and beasts: the idea of being alive still persists, but this is an illusion because for a long time death has devoured us. And the most definitive: we no longer dream of any future because hope has been banished from our souls.
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