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The winters of Buenos Aires are cold when the dawn let fall all the condors of the sun.
Wearing a poncho of the leftist guerilla of 1973, the montoneros did burn this train of the englished suburbs.
Among haze, chorizos of the cold for the transmaniacon M.C. become the station in a cyclop of smoke.
A cyclop of smoke.
A solar rainfall of titanium turn on ignition the paraísos at the yellow dashboard light: we belong to the syndicate of the sëcret cömbinations that lie...in the eagle's darkness...
Our machine gun will be magnified pavement for the heavy lords to come: open a path for the heavy lords to overcome: our rise will be our fall.
Our mächine gun will be a bridge to light the light.
...The winter nights of Rafael Castillo are black velvet where the Joans of Arc dance Deep Purple under the stroboscopia, violet and white; fuck, fuck it up off!
The prophecy of López Rega says that they will come an agonic dawn.
The riders of göre; riding tall like satraps in the dust: their snakesuits and their leadwheels.
Running in futura towards 1980.
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