The doll that sits in the room painted white, sits in the corner with
inexorable fright. Nothing seems to make him scream, he sits in fright
because of his dreams.

Sweet dreams of beautiful days that never end, unless you want them to.
Days where you are free to speak whatever is false or true. In these dreams,
you can be mediablind, or you can be arrogant.

But this doll knows these days won't fade into something so
distant. In his city there is always a motorcade, its persistant. His
atmosphere is black with absract splatters of grey. The explosions just make
it pointless to pray.
 
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