In the jugle

This city lives in pollution, nice and thick, it blocks everything in sight; and all dark alleys fucked up with graffiti on the walls become the centre of all centres, testing our yearn for vices, this craving we have to do some more sin... and what happens there, stays there, protected and secure in the conscience of the city. Not in ours, we don’t have it anymore… conscience…

These fumes, they’re created from our disappointments, and they grow vast further out in time. We have no idea where we’ve been, and we hardly give a decent fuck where we’re going. In this jungle where everything is erased but the exaltation in our need for greed, we’re chased only by ourselves. Here, in this den, nature met its doom – it found us; here, our lungs are filled with poisonous air, when our diseases grow in numbers, come, we got them all.

… remembrance of what we were, even that is lost. Things we’ve lost are measured in people… in this sad little blue marble we call home, people are treated like things, accessories.

… and I am that Corto, incorrigible romantic, who still feels happiness beyond description to my heart from our strength in numbers… the only baggage that I carry is the gold of my faith in love, so I love some more.