En el otro lado de la calle se habrían de aparecer, lentos, apretados, indiferentes. Se juraban amores que conjugaban los verbos más inverosímiles. Había algo más, una duda, eriza, cuneiforme; adyacente a la misma necesidad del allá. De lo lejano; país de otros labios, salvajes, inaccesibles. ¿Y cuándo sería el momento final de encapsularlo todo, de abstraerlo al sentimiento insondeable del deseo? ¿Y el miedo? Ese quisquilloso y malvado apabullo mental, que se aloja en las visceras, empujando la respiración incontenible de la razón. Del pensamieto oculto, dormido ante la imposibilidad de existir; del desprendimiento de la sensibilidad. La sonoridad que se carcome una a una, las notas agudas que se ahogan entre esa sola saliva.

Y de la brutalidad: acosadora, incesante, burda. Y del asco: sórdido enemigo del yo.

It was a long night of sorrow.
There was a flat torrent of a loud survey

An alley he was in
digging feet of sand

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