Sometimes we see that happen. The long narrow corridor is not provided with windows. Dark place to ferment, also starts off discouragement and fear. Do not know is in your heart, saved as pre-Hispanic pyramid, secret, sweet voices, footsteps petrified to lack of wind, insects become our steps dust, sand before water texture. "I just look at this?" I wonder surrounded by the silence of the morning. Unique among archivists and blatant companies. I wake up full of scars and in the text of Esther Seligson: heart wounds mean no scarring, betray oneself causes wounds that will never scar refused to accommodate my wounds and passions in the scar indifference What make-up your scars if her anyway gruir you awake at night? And the scars I proscribe this part of the world. Where is my partner, which wither and germinate the language of their steps. I stand cross the aisle and as a blind, open palm, caress the flattened walls, its horizontal hurt, the prospect of bankruptcy abyss my voice, my words suture. Jump sometimes, I ignore your breach of origin, their vigil entertained by touches of imaginary animals. My shadow thick inside succumbs. Deorbit errant passes corollary of joys and sorrows.
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