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| black: he woke up not even sure if he had eyes to open.� he was in the hold of something, mechanical, a ship or plane, even tank, there were engine sounds and churning.� a second's vertigo brought the thought that he wasn't in one of their machines, but become one, and his blindness was that of metal, his motionlessness that of welded steel for bones.� all those movies where in the end the conspirator appears and explains his diabolical near-completed plots, evil genius incapable of silence.� those films were propaganda, he thought, to instill confidence in the visibility of darkness, because actual evil is nothing less than hidden gears, whirring unheard death propulsion, statistical maps in invisible ink, laid out on table cloths of innocent days, until all it once it wraps you up and swallows.� he is now awake in its crypt, cryptic belly, mechanic acid, stowaway, paralyzed, no way of message to outside, blinded by oil-black mysterious schematics. | ||