As a pure dead in the swimming bath tub, open eyes and chest out, just a hair under the water. The irises dilated
filled interior of my face to the extreme offshoot of the last of their alveoli blacks: had they seen him do not know how many times. Indeed yes, I know, I mean: I know. Two baths a week, with no changes or exceptions Christmas, for an average of fifty-six weeks per year, which for thirteen years ago ... ago ... millequattrocentocinquantasei.
Millequattrocentocinquantasei simulations of the death shrouded in hygienic practice, but betrayed in their unspeakable fact, the religiosity and the timing with which the acts of the ceremony is repeated: the Finnish salmon pink-tiled the essential oils, relaxing bubble bath, shampoo polishes, balms embalming remained alert, dignified, and martial useless as Swiss Guards.
Millequattrocentocinquantasei demonstrations that water also dig the rock, but there is no history against the ceramic. Or against that heart of pumice abrasive consumed by dint of rubbing against the breasts of others to try to smooth and thin enough to break the resistance and let it penetrate, sink against nature. Against the nature. The Rio
C. flows in some parts of Colombia, and mutilated bodies in her bed hugging a pillow made of concrete sleeping a sleep so deep that brings them sooner or later, to the surface, because the man is so, porous: his body sponge, his heart of stone. Pumice.
0 comments:
Post a Comment