Painting with your own shadow.
Later. As if I had not felt for.
Spitting remains of the night on a fabric, allowed to dry autdoor
. Stay aware to the limit of the paper
that separates his two sides.
A deaf beep indicates you the exit, as if the profile
of your hand spoke your own language.
In the mirror. Be reflected and recognized another. the
Garbage showed you at some point that a life is not
sculpted by beaten. A pool of alcohol and
Open a door. No. The door opens up and invites you
Walk backwards. Limping. Point out to heaven with the
forefinger and from the star pulling a thin thread to the
ground. Stroking the broken ladder that someday served you
to pick fruit from the tree. Small stones in the
boot are memories of the way.
A hotel as home. A stain on the shirt.
The ink stains and marks a territory. Moves and in
its route, l leaves the trail than it was.
Open your eyes in the morning.
Matías Krahn for exalattte