To fall from a crystal grave towards the wound of water. To be extinguished in the conformity of the sky and a hand that doubts on the beauty of rubbing. Between these forged grass of an easily frightened clarity, we are maintainted by the shade of craziness on an invisible rise of solitude and hope. We shout, we shout when it gets broken in our lips the magical hour never discovered, only said with fire and fog under sheets to eyelids closed to this world, opened to the indestructible dream of a libertarian ecstasy, wishing its expansion beyond space and time, beyond our flesh and superficial balance.

Bridges and boats in the incognoscible limits smooth the pain of waters, but the eyes look for trunks and wings, the sparkle of a light worm that as dead stars still shine in our human and depressed distance. We do not walk to know, we do not walk to explain, we walk to feel and break us in a suicidal furnace of undeniable passions.



Neither the night nor this static morning belong to somebody. The dream rodents are an approach to the disaster. Your feet walk like strangled clouds. You go out to the search of a crack towards craziness and they vomit lies to you or they spit silences to you or their fears of anodyne color kick you. Tornados may approach, but the extraction of the flesh in the alive manifesto had a force of seismo elevated to a permanent dark. There were days, yes, when body and mud turned vindication, when we kissed each other as kids playing and we laughed, when we protested with the sincerity of a wave precipitated towards the death, when we did not get dressed because the rubbing of everything that was not our bodies hurt. In plain plateau they think that water hurts, and they levitate with their anchors on the destruction of love. Mix-up tumors grow in the air.