I dread the existence of time. That damn seconds defining how delay me in my actions. And walking silently in the calendar, noting the evening of rain since the last hours of this side of the sheet.
I hope to get an empty train to take me anywhere and I travel back in another light. Roundtrip the company of trees that grow behind the dirty glass. Always looking forward to the moon, the day when I will be happy to get my sleep, so you can laugh. Hoping not to move because that day is important and I will arrive in the same condition I am today. Still, waiting. And the dates arrive, happen, and faded over time, and I am a passenger who arrives late and running the length of the road pulling his suitcase on the floor, until the platform is over and there is no way to get to the train.
But I'm stubborn. Again in my memory the sequences that were contained in my retina, and so I will not forget. I will never acknowledge that I have forgotten. The images are nothing more than that, shadows of a reality that is not even original.
A desperate gasping fish even if it has already been pulled from the water, that's all. A last four events, and a constant reminder. Nothing new. Four strings and a life that moves through my back.
Avanzo to the torture of that time makes me old, and at the end of thought recognize that those few seconds I have lost even more. Clinging to things that lived and eager to small plans that await me. And realizing at the last second of my life that to me has not been present.
(AM)
In his old
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