Whether it's a glass of wine or an old quilt. For warm clothes or warm coffee. Sometimes, therefore, it is comforted by the smile borrowed on difficult days, or by the look that caresses the chest with the intention of caring. To observe what few have attempted. I am also the need for the bed that only the retina can provide, making the pitch something like home. To the breeze, even if it is fleeting, that carries with it the threats of peace of a peace that almost never lasts. Of the hugs that, regardless of how long they last, are always too fast.
In the bond between those who allow me to arrive and those who allow me to arrive, I wake up with the feeling of insertion. A rescue of lost nostalgia, of a childhood that is poorly fitted if analyzed under unpretentious but necessary gaps. Calm, but about to hatch. In the first bosom of intimacy, we inaugurate the memory of having, one day, romanticized the predilections of destiny, believing that he was the lord of the steps. The mentor of the sky and heart constellations. To the body, only the instrumental task of fulfillment. So let's go much further than that.
On those cold winter nights, I spend the afternoon beside a glass or five of wine, staggering through the alleys of my own pretexts. Embodying weaknesses that I know are inherent in a process of eliminating insecurity. In the cry, the strength of one who is always determined to change. Deep down, the subtlety and shyness of a child who has just realized about the world around him. The phallic phase sequenced by the tables of genuine beauty. A psychoanalysis capable of hiding the supremacy of a cowardice that only makes you want to go ahead. The circular time of an image that is no longer traditional, but technical and oppressive. Progressive and unusual.
In the corridor of unpreparedness, therefore, is where the lost memories of potential are kept. The dialogical capacity capable of maintaining the construction of the new, also of the dependent on the discourse as a way of perpetuating itself. In this profusion of life technologies, sometimes I get lost in vague moments of serenity. Moments appreciative of forgotten songs, of colorful voices. It is when, then, the synesthesia of sensitivity makes eloquence the muteness of the barriers that imprison creativity. The walls that distance the gaze from the touch. Inside the cups, the freedom to come and go through thoughts and sensations. I'm tactful in every sip.
Due to the robustness of the act, I transfigure any warning of translation of the vulnerable to extinction. From the camouflage about to be mistaken for nothingness. Although belonging to the rational unreality that believes itself to be real within its irrationality, we can be precisely the unveiling. The faded. The tumultuous and rejected. In the grotesque panorama of preferences, the one who is aware that reason is a consequence of imagination, and not the opposite, fits into the wrong. In the beginning, fantasy, love. Finally, the thinking finger to misplace the beautiful. The fear of probable happiness, dangerous to the point of liquidating the audacity of the extraordinary. For wealth, excess. For well-being, only the necessary, what in a smile or two we manage to carry with us during the walk.
