Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes made of ticky tacky
Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes all the same
There's a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses all went to the university
Where they were put in boxes and they came out all the same,
And there's doctors and there's lawyers, and business executives
And they're all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf course and drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children and the children go to school
And the children go to summer camp and then to the university
Where they are put in boxes and they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business and marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.

Little Boxes, by Malvina Reynolds

A televisão habitua-nos a ver sem sentir.
Sem nada para além de meras imagens com som associado somos obrigados a projectar uma estrutura q é a nossa. A nossa vontade, as nossas pulsões e desejos presentes e profundos, em espelho.
Toda a carga enorme de informação que receberíamos perante a presença de alguém é limitada a imagens e sons, aos poucos tornando-nos insensíveis a tais sensações extra-sentidos.
O mesmo poderia ser dito de tantos outros meios de alienação activa

No processo de me conheceres evita catalogar-me, é coisa q me faz comichão ao espírito. Causa-me demasiado incómodo ser forçado por um funil conceptual, especialmente se tiver aberto a quem me empurra, me divide e me solidifica na geométrica forma.