still do not know how but I know it's out there that does not stop, it hurts a lot.
The world is going to explode and ill hide haunt us as we hugged, behind the door of our room to escape the long arm of a god who touches us with its buckle, with his fists, which prepares us for a minor ordeal, but humiliating.
Still, there is no problem if we are together and we communicate by telepathy, the signs but you do not understand each other, and we are safe. Because guess all deaths less than yours and mine that are there, bidders, and therefore do not matter. Eternal two, clinging to my hope and your spasms, electroshock your downloads, you rocked like every possible lullaby.
Both in and against the world girls laugh like a minor gesture we know well, in the countless bars, cut up with crescents we take to the streets. Both rounds one to take different paths again who knows what to madness and what to sanity.
...
When I can not move, the gray and the light does not matter, and isolation is a hammered tin drum with no rhythm, I return to you, sister. I'll be back in a few hugs that you steal, the broomsticks were microphones in our free music, your peuchela Rubena flying kicks, your mummy righteous, our three stooges "we give the cord in truth and side crocodiles and other carnivores, devouring elephants are your legs? "
When I can not move because it hurts and it hurts - my god how long, how-to, no place in the house or within me, no viscera or corner, there is love and sweet voice, no comfort or I remember back (to return you) that we lost both.
Ana Duran, Argentina, 1961 .
Del My sister blog.
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