Espontaneous

Sometimes I think you are spontaneous, I think you loomed up out of the underworld, without past, like a heavenly creature, like a demiurge, destined to draw my way.

When I tell you about the dead socialism, about the psychoanalysis of the capitalism, when I reproach you for my hate for the gods and the popular christ as if it were your blame, and you look at me and listen me as whom trying to attend a unginhe, then I know you as if you had borned suddenly.

Then I can love you.