As much as he wanted, he could not raise his voice and his cry was drowned. Such was the silence that afforded him the vision of the abyss, that which is imposed at that old photograph which he kept since childhood. The crushed between your hands to perform later that act thirty-three years ago he stopped to complete, by rescuing from a number of appliances that burned on a pyre made his father in the yard, that image is now included in the fatal spread of terror. Burned that image not only driven by his anger but by the desire to erase forever the mark of evil. He, the true rescuer of the report, the scrutineer persistent and conscientious desk barbarism, was now become a mere vermin, caught in the horror intimate and instinctively decided to suppress the truth, hide the evidence. But the evidence, then I understand it also, fatally, can not be erased and even less who was the architect of them return.
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