A day a week to be specific, a ray of sun glare deployed one of a pupil that seemed unknown. A few months later, a light touch, three words, the circle closing.
Pink Everything seemed the story, the story of a tape output of those gringo weaving stories of schoolchildren in the prom party. " Then pass the stations until you lose count of how many times the sun came through the clouds or if you heat or a damn. The wind, smoke, ash, nothing. Miras in the litter that is diluted among the roots of the spruce and currency languid fingers.
is to find the tip of the iceberg first of what has led to a decade of unconsciousness. And it is not possible to know why or how everything started. The rocks become smooth and no longer feel, sometimes I think if they really are smooth or have formed calluses on the soles of the feet and can now walk without feeling its edges.
In the middle of the night, the first thing the next day, during the first sips of coffee, however get a touch. I do not know if it's a different touch or emotions are weaker.
Today the reason I am overcome, turns his eyes inward, trying to find explanations that I know I have not. I only know that before now was a thrill and laughter are two joys multiply and are two cries for which give life are two ways to open more of me and behind them: a new thrill, less subtle but more reliable, less frequent but more constant.