These things out there that sing and these things in here that scream with the gloved howl do not happen, that's why the mountains kneel like sheep with damask dampers, pixels, and whipped cream. Nature celebrates alone and the city distributes clouds, glances, scents, and the voices and the air and the kisses on the streets, an enlarged distillate cubistically should be painted if it didn’t exist.

Thus, everything ends, there is no triumph, there is no one, only a scent, the oldest sharp one like paper, white and silent like the world before the dog barked when the pebbles were untouched and the sea new.

Poetry as a form is convenient like throwing wide stones into the wave while deep down you want to change life, but whose life.

I remember the summers before they turned blue, then the other air came, waves, eyes.