The door opened. Aspects of the door, invited me to do with that careless and scornful of those who already know the ending.
Like a child who invents a strange barbaric game on ants, always capture that faint thrill of uncertainty with which those hidden every time my breaths.
There she turned on the light, the coat is on the couch, the doubts I let them out the door. The act of stroking for a moment the light is desperate, you know. Can not wait to see from afar my outstretched hand, the slow pace, daring, which retrace the old script does not betray the ticking of your silent rooms.
There is this ... we are alone in this corner of tempo rubato, and there's no beating horizon.
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