Tremble, waiting, listening to the rustle of the pen against the paper, which will release tension from your body, checked for the shake of your hands and make the butterflies that are in your ; magician die, useless, meaningless in its flight.
not know what to tell anyone because you do not know their name or know if you ever read (or read) these lines. But no matter now, because your soul has ceased to tickle your fingers, and muscles of the hand and wrist is starting to complain. But that pain is good, from the past and dance in your memory, leaving a bittersweet taste in the mouth.
Your stomach is empty, you're thirsty and the body suffers from poor posture. And it is beautiful, soft and cold, filled with something you do not know name and does not let you think about it.
Just write what you give.
----I wrote some time ago, a week later and three weeks earlier. He was anxious, lying on my Pienza, hoping my mother calling me for lunch. Sure, it was Saturday and I knew that I would not do so until it is asked. I want to learn to cook.
Tired of waiting, my uncle called me and asked me to go look. I ate at my grandmother's house, a little depressed. Then we went to Cabo San Pablo and later, while the mussels.
I still wonder why I remember so well the bad and sad and so bad the beautiful and sweet.
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