We are the sons of despair. Have you ever seen dead infants? We are indicators and surveys. The Covenant of Suleiman. There is no sun, no spa, no eyeliner, no artificial nails. We live. We pin our high hopes on the appearance of God in dreams. We count our fingers and reassure the mothers of the world. Sadness is still incapable of killing. Everything is fine. The limit of intoxication.