The window of my room is sick. Cries all day, it rains in torrents while the sun set. The cold sweat soaked and the wall begins to fade. And I put songs that cheer to anyone. I feel in bed at her slowly, gently. He refuses any dialogue. I returned a blurred reflection and quiet in tears that run off the frame. You can pet and dry the windings, the tuck to notice it cold with the blind. How to cure a window worth?
All are bones, other spare. And Time will prove even more those who crave immortality. Seek it in religion, fame, or their offspring, according to Unamuno. But are bones, bones and I ye. We better go finding out. still ring in my hands the bones of the dead. Of the dead who were living like us who were young like us and had dreams that ended at the bottom of the ditch. Of those who only between bones ground strokes have to walk apart from the stones. The pieces of bone not weighed, in that they differ from the stones, and are porous, but also are covered in mud and indifference. have now the same life as the stones. But they had names. Were Cecilio Antonio, Luisa or Tabernacle. Do not know where the story or who care, perhaps hidden in a drawer with cobwebs, whimpering behind a wall subject to death. on these words. All spare.
