The days are numbers on a static schedule, the estimated amount of minutes are hours, at the time, and day breaks out there. Wilderness and foreign travel at night. As a newspaper, The weariness of each week in my hands. The script returns as endless idea. Lapses; A second part of paroxysmal, unconnected lines, in the midst of a truth that has the face of urgency. One possible answer and in the future, dreams that crumble. Not even a writer, I lose the notion. Wound on my conscience the scene. Work exhibited in the discontinuous way ... Steps through the corridors, which are galleries and art at each fair, in light of a lamp that blind. Cold air is breathed in the warm melody of your voice. Instead of passing through the cemetery gates because ... There is too much death and everything. They are eyes that want to wake up to green each time, even in the glass prison, which is the time, hitting our consciousness. Reality. We are the voices. These words they build worlds in each eye, which are not visible, but perpetual sentiment unites us, and there is not enough.
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