Copies.

Millions of routes.

Up and down the street, inside the bus, in the cars, on foot.

Millions of possible routes to follow.

Destroyed people that move mechanically. Breathe mechanically.

Alienated souls wandering around carrying on their back what is called “life”.

Everyone without exceptions is destroyed. Some a bit more than others.

At the traffic light, a dying woman waits to cross the street. Her hands are wide open and raised as if to invoke a higher power. Her eyes are filled with anticipation of the inevitable.

At the next corner, a junkie is taking his daily dose. His eyes are closing slowly as he injects death. His gaze has the color of pleasure.

A car is passing next to me. There’s a couple inside. Blond hair blowing in an open car as the wind commands them. Playful hands outside of the windows trying to catch a handful of oxygen. Two pair of eyes full of vanity.

A pregnant woman walking on the pavement. Her belly almost reaches her neck. Inside her, one-more human is swimming. A ring on her swollen hand reflects the indication of eternal love and devotion.

I came across all your possible versions. In every street I walked. In every night I got wasted. In every exhale of smoke and in every cigarette. In every breath and every fear. Within blurry eyes and drunk conversations. Within all the awkward laughter of people and the formal “good night” handshakes. I came across you in crumbled sheets and in every orgasm.

All your possible versions have disappointed me and now I'm dead sure that your original was never conquered.