TD Typaldos: The sea has the privilege of expanding to the Infinite, embracing the Unknown in its heart. Upon its waves, one can easily build castles full of crenelations, where Earth’s most deprived pin their hopes for a New Life. The disavowal toward the Old is imbued with saltiness and algae incubate the Flags of Tomorrow.
The beings born into its damp subsoil, our allies. Monsters which hate capitalism, modern civilization (the oil slicks of multinational fuel corporations, which contaminated their damp habitation), miserabilism that channelled toward their country by scattered naturalistic books, forgotten to the shore by suntanned bathers, enabling the wind to dash them into the waves and, consequently, the monsters to read them without having the slightest idea about their content.
They are monsters that bear the faces of Marx, of Che, of Bakunin. Sprouted amianthus sea shells dress their bodies by birth, while their ends are tentacles made out of moonlight rays, which, during the August nights, caress the mother Sea.
As weapons, they carry fiery hammers and sickles and Molotov bombs made of iodine mixed with coral reefs.
The attack on the society of the land will unfold (it has been scheduled) in cahoots with the underprivileged and the slaves of today, only for a night of October, and, first and foremost, as the beggars of every megacity occupy all the studios of every big TV channel and lull the bourgeois performing concerts for violin and flute.