In an important part of the world, right next to a colony of cockroaches, is a group of people who claim to have understood the ephemera of existence, their beautiful faces glowing in the aureate evening light with melancholy, hands holding the poetic letters of an incomplete love, their feet perfectly arched in a sorrowful position as if any moment now they will break into a ballet of their own tragedy, their lips frozen in the shape of almost-said.
They are the immortal intellectuals. They cannot die. Their hearts forever beat in fear.
They will inherit the earth.