la vida es la sala de espera de la muerte. con esa perspectiva, seguro que te dejan pasar primero.
debería calmar mi verborragia en silencio, pero las maravillas de la tencología me lo impiden. muevo mis dedos sobre un teclado apenas perceptible de 12 teclas y cuatro botones raros. tu voz dormida despierta mi felicidad expectante. tu voz dormida se olvida cerrar la puerta del corazón y deja escapar corriendo, sobre la entonación, lo que produce en tí mi arrebato de coraje. mi imágen fue presa de tus sueños. mis sueños fueron impedidos por tu idea. bajo la tormenta de agua sobre mi amplio techo, me distiende tu recuerdo, vivo, presente, fresco. y que sea lo que sea.
once again she unknown calls. tea? what? i was too sick to leave the bed, too uncertain to hit the road, too wary to complete the visual part of your image. your manners... do you fear me? you don't bother - yet. the veil of your anonymity won't let me see enough to get bored, and my imagination runs too fast - still. you speak to me like you knew me, like i was your friend, like you've known me since your early days. do you really caught my essence from the distance you keep? or is it again the common image construction mistake? maybe your image actually matches. will you be cute? lovely? beautiful? reality check time: censored. but i don't want to write the worst version of what can happen and end up doing nothing (like in a 30 times refused draft i heard of in a film that already lost almost all of it's magic in a single night).
i was expecting almost anything, but i never imagined this. incoherence. whatever caught my attention then, lost is - hidden, my innocent hope prays in vain. or did i change that much? i cannot accept that the exciting parts of your image i treasured that much were my construction. all that you are or were, was not here nor there. you brought your bag full of stones, collected along your uneasy road, and i was supposed to turn them into feathers and fill your pillow, to let you keep on dreaming about what i should be. in my naiveness i was expecting another move, somewhat more intelligent, more fearless, more audacious, more expected from what - it seems - i unconsciously constructed. and in the end, to finish one the sourest times i have lived, you poured what you wept all over me, like it wasn't yours, like you weren't here when it happened.
see you around.
Big heart broke my mouth. The representation of your presence is a soothing red stain that hurts. The presence of your manifestation won't dissapear that fast. And in another plane, the modified behaviour I support so much makes me take positions I detest. Hanging from your converted transcription, I float over this sea of mistakes. Grabbing it tight I can be safe. Holding it fast, you can get hurt. Come, this is what the inside looks like.