I'd like to reconstruct myself and I don't want to know more that I should.
Fainting fits are like the bird tribes that migrate in autumn. They separate the cheese rennet from the marguerites, the poison from the water waving hello, the past steps from the heavy weights.
Getting back to the grunting wink of the evolving days that went by, those into which you collide and end up crashing into their hidden thoughts, the ones revealed in the twilight of silence, in between sentences. Tremors and small noises everywhere, yes, those that silence you hang over soul. Shark fins that carry complaints brunt as harangues and regrets as sharp as subtracted guns.
Seeds and their pieces on the road. Dusty stones that sustain the foundations of rejection. Living termites, soundscapes, condolences, paper deaths, unrecognisable flavours. It's a parade of salty existences placed in sticky beach toys filled with dice and green felt.
My memory is the same as fish memory and it doesn't last more than three seconds and forty nine. There's no limit to the philosophical panels of street pollution, tiny approaches; I should say, to be precise: paced returns and animated jumps like translucency into a toy.
My duvet keeps on going as usual; it intends to become a starry cover, like a children's tent so that I can sleep without tremors. It's as if the aristocats' band aid is also protecting my pierced heart.
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