Brain Bleed More Condition_symptoms.

I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world, release the truth in us, out on the night, to transcend death, charm motorways, ingratiate ourselves with birds and make sure the secrets of the insane.

I believe in my own obsessions, in the beauty of a car crash in the peace of the submerged forest, in the excitement of a deserted holiday beach, in the elegance of automobile graveyards, in the mystery of the parking several floors, in the poetry of abandoned hotels.

I believe in the forgotten runways of Wake Island, pointing to the Peaceful of our imaginations.

I believe in the mysterious beauty of Margaret Thatcher, the arch of her nostrils and the edgeof his lower lip, in the melancholy of wounded Argentine conscripts; in the smiles disturbed employees of service stations, in my dream of Margaret Thatcher caressed by that young Argentine soldier in a forgotten motel, observed by a station employee tuberculosis service.

I believe in the beauty of all women, in the treachery of his fantasies, so close to my heart at the junction of their disenchanted bodies with chrome rails supermarket shelves, in their warm tolerance of my own perversions .

I believe in the death of the morning, finishing time, in search of a new age in the smiles of the girls from the bars of the routes and the tired eyes of controladores air traffic at airports out of season.

I believe in the genitalia of the great men and women in the body postures of Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher and Princess Diana, the sweet smell emanating from their lips when they look to cameras worldwide.

I believe in madness, the truth of the inexplicable, in the common sense of stones, in the lunacy of flowers in the disease stored up for the human race by the Apollo astronauts.

not believe in anything.

I believe in Max Ernst, Delvaux, Dali, Titian, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, de Chirico, Magritte, Redon, Durer, Tanguy, the Facteur Cheval, Watts Towers, Bocklin, Francis Bacon, and all the invisible artists within of inlies, fantasies and evasions.

I believe in the mystery and melancholy of a hand, in the kindness of trees, in the wisdom of light.