God: a disease we imagine we are cured of because no one dies of it nowadays.
We are afraid of the enormity of the possible.
Who Rebels? Who rises in arms? Rarely the slave, but almost always the oppressor turned slave.
By virtue of depression, we recall those misdeeds we buried in the depths of our memory. Depression exhumes our shames.
To have committed every crime but that of being a father.
What are you waiting for in order to give up?