as I sit in my corner in Cordoba, and it screaches, I calculate the Integral of Burning formula and scream "if the formula is constant the dimensions of the lost life are...." but everyone knows well the formula is not constant...yet nobody objects...guess they're too busy calculating their own integrals....with a funny waddling gait he arrives...and screems "let's roll"....and starts carving the sylvius aqueduct in my brain...playfully he has carved a place for himself in there.....a bomb long in past blows up again and fills everything with the same bitter taste.....a voice calls out "psychosis...psychosis"...with chlorpramide & Sulpride...such a pitty gift......

and the man in my brain blows, and blows and ascends...ascends and I hang from it..."man, take me out of Cordoba too"...and the wind comes...and we go...and we go...and we go......and then suddenly I am all alone again in Cordoba...