write between leaves scattered on the desktop that exists only for those pages are cluttered, with dates and names. Day, like a timeline of conviction inevitable. Hours, fixed, announcing our being there, staying there. The office, with its glass windows onto a corridor where people ahead and pass. The desire suffocated between folders in a file inexorable photos and tokens, signatures. The sun on a calendar, beyond, a landscape of Portugal in a portrait and the sudden silence as a sound that slowly eases the reflection of reality, a cry that wakes us up in the middle of the night. Then I returned, seeking, among studs, the white end of a sheet and draw lines, with an urgency of life, reduced in this space:
When thinking hurts my eyes open and stunned, we regret about the drowning that is the silence of a world still: The only hands embrace the freedom that slides, cold and leaden in a voice suddenly broke in the rain ... Darkness becomes infinite as far as possible, it beats, from deep. Mar takes us away, inside. Tranquility ever, it was the heat. I get weak at the memory and I have no fear or cold.
When thinking hurts my eyes open and stunned, we regret about the drowning that is the silence of a world still: The only hands embrace the freedom that slides, cold and leaden in a voice suddenly broke in the rain ... Darkness becomes infinite as far as possible, it beats, from deep. Mar takes us away, inside. Tranquility ever, it was the heat. I get weak at the memory and I have no fear or cold.
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