The centuries have grown heavy and weigh upon the moment. We are more corrupt than all the ages, more decomposed than all the empires. Our exhaustion interprets history, our breathlessness makes us hear the death rattle of nations… the curtain of the universe is moth-eaten, and through its holes we see nothing, now, but masks and ghosts…
“Justice is a painted gendarme whose colors rub off in our hands. A gendarme that’s been painted, carved, encrusted in the foods we ingest. The trademark of our moribund society, of a nation unhinged, of men who don’t know how to hold on to the elegance they possessed as children, when man — that obese monster — happily slept.“
Viscount Emilio Lascano Tegui | On Elegance While Sleeping