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We are living in times of turmoil. The prophets are sick. The fibre that holds the world together is old and worn, at imminent risk of breaking. Uncertainty, doubt, anxiety and fear are spreading at the speed of a click. Portugal is an old wounded soldier limping aimlessly along on the battlefield of life. We surrendered ourselves to a drunken dream one April day, and thirty years on we've awakened in the midst of a nightmare. Over the course of those years we have been blithely heading for an abyss like sedated sheep to a slaughterhouse. The black sheep were constantly stifled, disguised or slaughtered by the shepherds. But as time has passed, the seeds of deaf and dumb discontent have been sown and the new lines of thought and action are enhanced by new technologies that the old have taken a long time to assimilate. The new desires, the new dreams and the new visions come with the talent and ingenuity needed to cast off the chains that have subdued us for so long. These are new times, a clean slate on which to write new and fresh messages. The new Gods are coming into their own...