Why do people watch television?
Not only does it worsen their vision,
But rottens their minds
And fattens their behinds.
Pre-recorded images flash before their eyes
Without time to think, they are gullible to lies.
Someone else’s worthless job it is
To put inside a vacant skull some entertainment that ain’t his,
To fill a space with virtual relations living in a box
Dissolving one by one the mind’s building blocks.
A human turns to shadow, relying on machines
For some emotional stability and dreams.
Grows weak from using only thumbs
To surf through channels while laying in crumbs,
Becoming dummer every minute
It is a drug one can’t envision
Too lazy to get up and write a memoir of his life,
Cause it contains even less substance than a low-life’s.
He is a clone, a puppet of society,
Which, despite loud words, quietly wipes out variety,
Creates an army of mindless workers with no brains
And twirls between cigar-sized fingers golden chains.
Humanity prefers to follow and not lead
One in a million’s only possessed with greed
Beware that man, for he is great
He seized occasion ‘fore it was too late
Became a tyrant and dictator
Because his mind was simply greater
He chose his cards, and played the game
And now history forever knows his name.

Man, listen as I speak
This entertainment that you seek
You have to seed it through your brain
You know, I’d rather watch the rain…

The sun radiates off the small old building, sending dancing lights from the windows, bouncing off the smiles of passengers and lightly falling in the surrounding water with a sparkle of delight. The little girl standing nervously next to a black gondola glances inside with anticipation. Behind her, the adults are discussing something that sounds important and confusing. She prefers to tune out of their grown up conversation and instead can’t help but smile at the dancing bright water so close to her feet. The gondola sways amicably, not without an air of grandeur. Its red interior is very inviting, with all the cushions and rugs that look more than comfortable… The little girl remembers how she didn’t want to go to Venice because her friends (or perhaps, her classmates that she really wanted to make friends with) finally invited her to one of the biggest parties of the year. Standing there, on the border of the sidewalk, she thought how she was missing such a great opportunity to fit in. The Saturday sun would be setting soon, and that’s when their fun would begin without her. Suddenly a warm hand lands lightly on her shoulder and tears her away from the unpleasant thoughts. The man in a striped shirt, undoubtedly the one whose gondola it was, smiled down at her and lifting her gently over the water, propped her in the biggest pillow in the boat. The three adults climbed in right after her, the man took his steering pole, and they were off. On the water, like on any normal street, is a traffic of all kinds of boats, from big to tiny, ones that fit only one man. They glide by beautiful antique buildings, under dozens of tiny bridges that connect the web of streets, past grand churches and tiny alleys, past stairs and steps that lead into water, and tiny windows. All the while in the front of the boat, the owner of the gondola explains something to her parents. She rarely tunes in, catching words like “3000 years ago”, “Piazza de San Marco”, “this is the oldest church”… the ride fills her with calm and stability, but also with a sense of adventure. The ripples of the water make her forget about Paris and focus instead on the magic of Venice.

As the drizzle makes its way gracefully through the ocean of blue, it falls lightly down, and down, and down-
And gradually makes it wetter. It bounces off the leaves and the red rooftops, almost silently landing on the gray pavement and yet you can hear through the darkness the drum sound in every drop.
Exploding in tiny droplets, the shattered molecules bounce one last time as they die.
These drops group into small puddles, each becoming a happy place for worms.
As the water evaporates the smoke-like substance takes form of a face..
A lone figure on the sidewalk looks closer; he realizes they are the features of his long lost grandfather. All of a sudden memories rush up to his throat, they have a strong acidic taste, and the salty tears that swell up against his will mix with the rain.
He remembers how late at night he would read him his own stories, the ones he wrote in his blooming days. They were stories by the candlelight about his youth, about the beauty of the nature, and the carefree days.
He realizes with a pang how the world has changed since then. People live at a faster pace; they run by their daily routines without noticing the small and simple pleasures of life. They rush by tall buildings, race through meaningless labyrinths of networks, get entangled in greed.
Submerged in thought, he hasn’t noticed the rain has stopped. The dark clouds had parted to reveal a pink and white sky. Soaking yet oblivious to it, his eyes land on the red sphere of light which with superior grandeur ascends behind the trees. Barely able to tear his eyes from its magnetic charms he dares to shoot a glance back to the spot on the pavement, but all image is gone. Instead are just a few last drops falling with a light “ting” from the wet leaves.
Slouching a little, he takes a few steps into the trees until the growing warm darkness engulfs him.