There, at each site, a repeat of the usual, as a echo, a resort to the monotony, on every shot when wearing hours a known key, step through the streets, at a time that always surprises us in a hurry. And yet, as forms that make the landscape, a moment on the stage of being, are linked in our minds, the obligation of every day, always be on that reflection, to see us in the practice. We know. The impact of looseness to his face frightens others. Ignorance of other lives. The uncertain road of our whole experience to be drafted, is the white horror of existence, so naturally to everyone, which we crossed, a curiosity that masks the horror. I see without looking. Habito, isolated on me. I answer no questions. There, in the calendar of the days that are part of the month is gone, nothing holds us not be more than just a change. Only a shift in that direction, after other routes until usual, the streets are and monotonous sounds, familiar tone dress with a space. Closed eyes are always sleep the night. In my arms. Forms that climb, between the sheets that cover us, like the voice that caresses sudden unknown. What will be when all is?. On your breathing beats the taste of calm. Room that is all reality, at that time.
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