We had bought it when we were boyfriends and thanks to its mild arm we had enjoyed many moments of hugs and kisses, before and after we got married because we know there is nothing better for the love that physical contact, cheek to cheek before saying or the touching which is said now, come or not come to mind. I checked the vinyls and I chose Beethoven and his Romance No. 2 in f major, Opus 50. Violin. To dusk on a rainy afternoon, soft and asordada rain, nothing will be better than the violin.
Notes began to float when I decided to rescostarme in the Chair. I had time my wife and her sister get along well and they liked to talk when at that point you are already willing to close your eyes and plunge you consciously or unconsciously into the nirvana of a good music saw a sheet of paper when hovering under the row of books from the high shelf. Did that paper that looked like a language that asomase ugly making mockery tried to make it ignore and closed my eyelids. Useless. Sheet, well, at least the piece of foil loomed, still is there a slyly claiming my attention. I had no choice but to get up and take what they called me. And I read… I speak for not having to what.
I talk with my lips to avoid having to hear my heart. I speak my mind for not listening to my thoughts. Ultimately all about that. Not to hear, but stunned me in silence. Dreaming, for not remembering. Laugh, for not sobbing. Play to the unconscious. Imitate the frivolous. Simulate insolent. Touching to the scandal. Lead to the abattoir remembrance of who I was. Let me take a marked target, not by me. And in the bitter candles, Rosary of insomnia with nightmares shared, imagine. Create, in nothing, what wasn’t, and what never existed.