It perceives that the people do not want it, do not want it because they are seen in it. It dominates it to the anguish, but deseperadamente it deseperadamente tries to paint itself, to be dressed in different way, wants to call the attention, even so it knows that this already is not possible. It works, it studies, it sings, it makes after graduation, it receives headings, medals, it would honor, conjecturas speeches, lectures, thinks, above all and on all, but it sleeps in its interior its nothing. To the look then for the ruins of the world that it created and all its andanas now comes back the melancholic look on the reality and in its soul the loss cries, cries, cries its infinite capacity to create something of definitive, perpetual, cries because it knows that it is not, wanted as much being, but it knows that until the eternity that it created he is plus one of its devaneios, knows creature, he knows that it is not for, but is not for whom are of truth and that to this somebody it cannot nothing, knows that some is part of some toy of being that it exists of truth and that it plays, plays with it because can play without if worrying about its feelings, dreams, perceptions, then are despaired because it knows that in this game it only one replaceable part of one breaks head, and that this part is not more nor less than one has asked for and that its existence or not existence, does not have no problem made so that it, undoes it without no problem of conscience therefore who is, it does not need to explain to who is not. Thus the man feels the loathing of the existence that it did not ask for, but that also it is not of it.