(dawn is that certain point in time when you can't say for sure what it feels like to be alive)
There comes the museum of all things great and small. The back against the wall, crimson specter, the orchard walls have learnt so much. So they creep upon your feet, telling secrets they should not be spreading, lying them all down on the ground. You see the tales bending behind the curtain – they don’t fit in the sofa either anymore, just try and take those damn chances: go fly a kite while your head hangs by a thin line between the fingerprints scattered upon your shoulders and the tiptoes that starving, pass themselves by with no signs of life at all. Your blood and veins are not a rhetorical system any longer: it’s not a red/blue colorization affair as long as you can see. Crimson and shallow, there’s a white wizard wearing a crown punctiliously made by little, shattered pieces of glass. He wears no hat, he’s seen it all not yet his eyes are tepid and somewhat crimson. What is there living in our blood is more than aquarelles in shades of red and blue, crimson and black; prisms of mundane. The room was already melting but fingers as cold as winter wind burnt out the mattress upon the blanket of the inner world with a little varsity red lighter anyway. The white wizard jotted down a few things and went downstairs: “there comes the museum of all things great and small” – he was drenched in watercolors. Speculation can go fucking shit through a mattress made of feathers, crimson and shallow, the manifestation of all things that blend before they choose to burn. She was crawling on the floor yet tripping over her feet. Her eyes embedded in the sunken words that had no ink sinking in their silhouettes. The orchard walls were casting all sorts of shadows way back then. Crimson and shallow - tender; diamonds on the making. There were some sentences that simply could not be written: the orchard walls had been witness of such reflection yet they were still outrageously white as the sound that never wills to speak.
"There were some sentences that simply could not be written: the orchard walls had been witness of such reflection yet they were still outrageously white as the sound that never wills to speak."
Me pudo ese final - o será que hace muuuuuucho no escribías in english :P
Mañana a la mañana te llamo porque hace como una semana que no hablamos, viste? Y no se vos, pero yo quiero hablar!
Oh, queen lala, crowned as the red ring girl!
Te quiero, gorda.