The rebel I flogged all his letters with flogging before she made her first presentation in front of you, gentlemen.. She did not write about love, but the bruises tamed her despite the rebel, more than just a book, and the voice that will read to you my curses written in it will come out of you, a voice you did not know existed Has any of you ever seen the blood on the body of the rebel? No, but all you saw were scars sewn by an old woman who sells roses in a place I used to take refuge in when I could not find the rebellious’s death more than a mere book as long as he shouts to all galaxies something inside you and you, and you were afraid to whisper it even in front of yourselves. The thin line between truth and execution is the result of psychophilosophical battles, between existence and nothingness. The rebellious dance was not used to, but it moved against the rhythm of every song.