«The sun gives grace, but only as a raised torch. Airplanes plow through the sky, rockets leap like frogs, peace is no longer a value. Madness describes circles mentally, like lilies on a pond. Artists paint by dripping red, green and blue. Poets rhyme loneliness, musicians are hungry as always, novelists can’t find a point. But the pelican and the seagull dive deep and surface, shaking half-dead and radioactive fish in their beaks. The sky is red-orange, flowers are blooming, but they are covered with a layer of rocket dust and mushrooms, poisonous mushrooms… And in a millions rooms lie lovers, lost and sick as the world. We cannot wake up, doomed to die forever in our sleep.»