Nine Eleven - I.nside T.he T.rojanhorse

The small hand stopped on NINE. Time is running out. It is a matter of minutes now, the last breath of the "dictatorship". For everything has been carefully wrapped, and put into the hands of our guard hounds It is a matter of memories, too: what we were, what we should have been, what we wish we could have seen in the eyes of the ONE the Triangle took away from you. It is a matter of numbers, it is a matter of figures; so much simpler to discuss than a face: ONE MILLION for Nixon, one more for Pinochet, and far more to protect our place on top of the pyramid, on top of the species that will overpopulate hell. (The Internationale will never be the human race.) Hell, no ! 'twill definitely be the ONE of the telephone and the telegraph Tonight, it's clear the Internationale shall never be the human race. The hand turns to the rhythm of history as it should be written. Allende will utter his last words in the silent turmoil of democracy. "I'm not going to resign! I won't let go, I will pay for the loyalty of the people with my life. I am certain that my sacrifice will not be in vain, I am certain that, at the very least, it will be a moral lesson that will punish felony, cowardice, and treason. Other men will overcome this dark and bitter moment." And when, on this Tuesday, September THE ELEVENTH, NINETEEN SEVENTY-THREE, the bell finally tolls noon, everything will be over.