We all look like museums of fears, we go on judging

We all look like museums of fears, we go on judging by the colour of skin, we put on a pious face, and at the same time we close for a break, when we see a plea in the eyes of random passers-by. We slice the air and grind our nerves into burnt sugar, at closed screenings we bring to ecstasy our own drive to become better, but after a world of daydreams and thunderous ovations, we slide into the embrace of procrastinations. We all look like museums of fears, only instead of old exhibits — carved out of living flesh little figures from personal collapses, junk from old subjects, that's been gutted not completely. Give them free rein, and they'll feed you more than your fill with advice from an old, grey-haired conscience.