Little us

1.
The horrible landscape was getting as dark as his shadow. No matter where he would walk, the black silhouette on the ground found its way to stain it all, even the air. Crawling, from behind, his own projection followed his feet. The weight he had to lift on every step forward was unbearable. It would soon come to an end.
Once his left foot was up, the dark past him from bellow, finally covering every spot. And when he put his foot down, there was no ground to stand on. It was all a hole wich ate him. He fell within himself. Now, he was all dark. Now, It was all.

2.
With eyes closed, the purple sea shivers across one's mind.
But the blue zone is never flooded. It always has to be high, always visible, destroyable, empty and degraded.
The purple clashes the blue making a beautiful noisy sound. Something to match the lowercase sea.

3.
Sad people never die. They just don't run out of agony.

So What

Parezco haber tirado la toalla con este asunto del blog. Pero la verdad es que no vale la pena postear algo después de un post que recuerda todo lo bueno.

Ojo, no es que no se me hayan ocurrido cositas... el punto es que esas cositas son medio redundantes con el post anterior, o consecuentes. Si no voy a aportar, para qué?

Bah, en realidad, el punto es que cada ataque de la trompeta de Miles Davis me parece un escaloncito de una silueta de horizonte con montañas que se va dibujando. Una silueta medio robótica, si se quiere. Y si me concentro mucho puedo ser una tipita con vestido blanco hace unos cuantos años y estar subiendo esos escalones [que pasarían a ser de un salón de jazz] mientras bailo y mis tacos están peligrosamente cerca del borde de cada escalón. Voy persiguiendo a Miles por siete minutos en los que mi vida corre riesgo y yo no me entero.