To exist in a stupor, to be a piece of cotton among the blue. Ser nada mas que un cúmulo de agua colgante.

En las mañanas todo acaba, con una memoria difusa y lóbrega. There were people and animals and lands and dreams and now there are none.

It seems my life is gated by a high wall, like an old forgotten castle. La hiedra la cubre, la niebla de la mañana la baña. Piedras resbaladizas para mis manos atéridas de frio.

Los dientes bailan en la madrugada, clickity clack-clack-clack. The sun has not come up yet, I feel lonely. Where are your great chariots, o fickle one?



Gone with the stars.