Today, it is Irene who eats the world, although not ever lose the habit of living with a time delay. With his backpack or loaded the way to the institute is eternal, and on top of your hair seems determined to become entangled in the strong autumn wind. Hundreds of leaves on the ground and one day will fall. Irene through the carpet, convinced that she has expressly been made to further delay its arrival. Then sit on your feet and immediately, in your ears, the rustle of dry leaves under a footprint. I can smell the cold, mixed with that of trees without getting naked modesty at the sight of all. Think about that when the rest will go to the street that leads directly to open the highway, a lonely street, where the seasons play with hair and with feelings of love.
(Ainoa Marco de la Torre)
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