We return to the same story in our thoughts: a tale of the innocent or a study of violence: 1000 blades in motion.

Human variables clash: intimidation without restraints. I turn away from the display, a version of sanitised technical perfection in which letters don’t make words but malicious colourful patterns: my gaze descents but the voice, restless, repeats the messages, deprives us of information, disjoints information: it seems high time to nail another saint to the cross, another one with surreal body extensions. The prayers continue and we turn them off.

Long ago or still to come, the new images are broken, people shown in slow motion march to an unknown place, faces and bodies placed in history between a strong life and a slow death that would come without their remembering anything.