This is not a daydream

Se um Arquimedes miasse eureka

All my ghosts came to haunt

He broke from them, and then he broke from himself

I

    We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar
    
    Shape without form, shade without colour,
    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
    
    Those who have crossed
    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
    Remember us-if at all-not as lost
    Violent souls, but only
    As the hollow men
    The stuffed men.

T.S. Elliot

O futuro é inexorável

A judgment made can never bend
(…)
putting out fire with gasoline

into this world we're thrown