Boycott Magazine

Because infamy reigned, and so that the traitors could no longer annihilate us, some of us had turned to love, the fermentation of melee and breath jerky by the beauty of these hands, whose he no longer knew who they belonged to. Because it was not enough, that the orgasms were not enough, it needed more, more and more. Spiritual routing, the drive to push the neurons much further in their entrenchments, the flag clenched, to make them cry their hands. It floated away in the horizon. Minis soldiers, beating the fiercest of the 'cross', the uncontrolled regressive, the degenerates. With our dark outfits, revealing our unconscious arms and faces emaciated by war paintings, we vociferated unpronounceable words, red to the teeth, fear to the lips. We breathed calm before the embrace, before starting the procession to the trance, we were just running, airing in these nameless geometric fields, gesticulating gracefully, we meet, ignoring each other, like blind stallions. Summer two thousand and fifteen arrived.