time ago because writing has become an abandonment to which I am not resigned. I walk away in return, eternal way, since in that direction. The leaves, senses dormant, are reminiscences, while I was arrested, and talking at intervals. The other looks peppered me with the same haste. A story in this conscious amnesia. Lapses and features that draw time, to the tragic reality of not knowing we are there to serve the sentence in this endless contemplation. And the images remain as a shadow hanging in perpetuity. The times they happen. Beats are from the same darkness. Eyes open to recognize, blind life, a built landscape into nothingness. Blue water, deep in the sky. Fists clenched, in a descent to the uncertainty. Tide brings denial. Pain on the banks of the inevitable. Voice that resonates, unbelieving, behind the doors. Back burial of light. Secret to which we cling, breathing the flavor of course, like a scream about to break right, to be blood flowing in this green wreck ...
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