We live on the outskirts - dr Halfhead + Elena of the Dinosaurs

We live on the outskirts. We live in small houses, we live in old condominiums, with slow elevators.
Or not, we live in  huge barracks, with atomic elevators that make eleven floors with a jump, concrete towers surrounded by little parks that bring us joy in the day  and make us afraid in the evening, when we go home, tired.

We live on the outskirts. If you need a taxi when we enter the meter reads already twelve euro, and the taxi driver looks at you, before opening the door, and once inside he tells you "I let you in because you look like a nice guy."

We live on the outskirts. We have little  time. On Saturday we shop, and Sunday we make long trips to ikea, you need a bedside table, the handle of the pan came off, the glasses seem to crumble when we wash them, the dishes have cracks as long as liars lines of life. And the faucet is leaking, "You called the landlord?" The faucet is leaking, the button on the washing machine is broken, the electric plate is burned there water fell on it, the window does not close, the faucet is leaking, we cook burgers from the discount in a universe disintegration, we cook discount-burger in the electric oven, the plate is burned out, and God does not love us, God does not loves us and the faucet is leaking.

We live on the outskirts. There is little, we are grateful if there is a place to drink a beer, a small cafe to spend a Saturday morning. We are grateful to the kebab open on Sundays when the bars are closed, we are proud of the Sicilian restaurant where we bring our parents when they come to visit us, as it was the Hilton.
We live on the outskirts, and any time of day or night there is someone who walks the dog.
We live on the outskirts. The North Africans drink beer in spite of the religion. Lonely Egyptians listen to music from their mobile phone sitting on the steps of the churches, until the phone rings and then plunge into oceanic calls with all the relatives who have left home. The gipsies fight on the streets and steal clothes destined to charity, risking to be chopped in two by the opening mechanism. The Chinese gorge the slot machines, trying to force them to throw up, shove coins after coins and do not speak with anyone. Someone is walking the dog. The faucet is leaking.

We live on the outskirts, and it was you who locked us in here. You have condemned us to the suburbs like the Indians to reservations, you have crammed us into twelve-storey towers because you had to squeeze every euro from every meter of land, you have stacked us in tower-hive where you choke us with cosmic rents  when the houses are empty, and it's always you that keep them empty.

And it is you, it's always you who paper the walls of things that we have to want. Who inflict anorexic models to us when we live out of pizza and sandwiches, Chinese and kebabs.  Who show a world of yachts and thin women to us that we avoid piss and mattresses to reach the subway. It's you who talk us into buying jaguars-cars that will make us dominate the city that we now chews and spits when we no longer have any taste, who washes us too many times in Chinese laundries until we are worn, and faded, and thin.

We live on the outskirts and we said FUCK YOU. You intoxicate us with famous names, and we engrave our names on the walls. You tell us to buy and we will tell you something else. You impose us the beauty, and we puke our monsters in your face. You have condemned us to the concrete and we have covered it with our symbols and our nightmares and now it's OURS.

We live on the outskirts, because this is where you have put us. We live in poor, small worlds, often enclosed between the front door and the nearest subway, and in these tiny worlds the only two options we have are to disappear, or become infinite.