what it kills is what it makes to live the donkey and the fish dies for the mouth, Peru and cod marinando, of eve. The worried one, for the burrow, the distracted one, for the destination, presumptuous if dilacera for the indifference. The hero dies for coarse, the pueril, of disillusion, the rejected one dies of lack of proper love. The impetuous one dies of haste, then, the cautious one, slowly, of bitterness, the controlled one, of isolation, the lost one almost nor lived. The pragmatic one loses for the stubbornness, the deluded one, for the simple ticket of the time. The loser, for the proper defeat, the drifter dies of melancholy, the winner, of nostalgia. Ours prece falece of egoism for the partial pleading, already the atheistic philosopher, for the magnificent one.

This physical time, for the death, the death, for the will of living. The politician, for its name, the artist, for the autocrtica, the hypocritical one, for the consumption, inhabitant of street of metropolis, for nothing. The passion if consumes of headquarters, the love dies of hunger. All the unfed ones of the world, for everything.