You confess your doubts to me,
you tell me that you don't know what the Invention is about,
that this practical joke
is the work more of Madness than of Genius
because, How do you explain it,
being here killing time little by little
while it is killing
at the same time and little by little our dreams.
And so it is,
you see,
nothing is right, everything is upside down,
passion,
reason,
in the end they are just fodder ±ón.
Cannon fodder...
You talk to me about the human being,
about Mr. Hyde and Dr. Jekyll hand to hand,
giving way to science
able to separate the bad from the good;
almost like the gods
who look at themselves as if it were a mirror...
but sometimes it kills them
br/>and ends up turning heaven into hell.
You say that similarity
is like another way of being oneself,
that what separates us
is something so weak as the different;
such a subtle difference
is no reason for me to be your murderer.
What a damned sin
deserves the condemnation of so much punishment.