Thursday, February 24, 2011
Cold Shower Time Limit
Fast. Voices. Beneath the blue neon light. The trees in the sidewalks do not feel pain, few hikers piercing the earth. Different vanishing points extend to some confusing cardinal point. The streets are contracted and my gaze falls on signs illuminating facades. Posters hidden layers of paint: the walls of the city are the content and continent itself, its invisible dust and advance wheel as the tire of the bus. Fast. In front of me the periphery hazardous spills and draw a boundary, bounded by the chaotic geometry of the geography of the garbage, slums and then topped with a gray contrast disfigured by cracks in the walls. These bardas de mi memoria que refuerzan la idea de que a la ciudad puedo llegar por donde quiera y al salir persistirán en mí una herida, un auto-escrutamiento. Las gasolineras próximas a la ventanilla son el único molusco que intenta devorar la noche, una noche de la que penden cetáceos como esa matrix móvil de Orozco. Siento que los instantes se repiten a cada latido y en distintas escalas como si fueran fractales: Monte Albán . Y mis pensamientos ceban la noche de belleza, y se van recordándote.
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