viernes, 10 de agosto de 2012
One may sit on a couch and wait. Sip a thought, maybe. Sleep on a wire, perhaps. To figure out a transition, to tear up a coincidence or a dove. Possibly. One may flip a coin and get surrounded by mystery and unborn thunders and letters. Not to give a fuck about anything or inconsolably weep one's lungs out. One may, perchance, to strike one's head on a golden fish memory and live in it like in a fishbowl for a moment, just the very moment of the travel of an origami crane to the trash can. One may just shut up one's fucking mouth and breathe, breathe like if it was a way to beg, like if it was the only religion that a man can prove to his many gods. One may sit on a couch and declare the wait one's intimate god.
There's a tiger sleeping in the back of my neck. Sometimes it purrs; others it talks or walks in its sleep. There are moments when one can not know if it is dreaming or is dead: because one can not know anything for sure. I sleep its dream when it rains. It sleeps mine when I'm aware. We both know about each other's drift, we both know we live the spare instants of a sparrow.