sheets remain in the tar spots eyelashes, heavy dew Seven Moons and necessary, the four sips of coffee at half awake. Are lying on the floor, and dry, the excess skin of the day, and the meat does not dare to hurt. And you have to gather tablespoons oblivion, for the wind to take him away, behind walls and books, perhaps behind me, or behind of saliva and fear, who knows. And, then, will the fingertips, the water stains on Friday afternoon, your voice, and silence of a soul that cries out the name fades ... and bathes his solitude of holy water so they do not forget to remind you while you sleep.
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