I have yet recorded images on the retinas and painted white because my mind is how different things you have to see a painting, cinema, picture ... When you skate for sensitivity the kaleidoscope of real life, traffic your instincts turn green to let the feelings that caused you all that is surrounding you in an instant imprecise: smell, touch, taste, see and hear the silence that gives you field far from the urban atmosphere so prone to drowsy. Yesterday I saw the garden and farmland, countryside and the meadow without horizon, married to the sky, united by an alliance that gives snowy winter land. Even the fog engulfed in torrents of light faded to bloom between her small white scrolls roofs, steeples, without a nest, pine wedding dresses immaculately. Up the mountains lying woman whose nipples were like blended with the atmosphere.
And the silence was so brutal that, without realizing it, your lips hissed returning to your prayers thank God for being in that moment disjointed, perhaps thousandths of a second, anyway, in that homeland feeling the veins of life, listening to the heart pumping, stroking the skin of the earth, smelling the soul of those little things we do not usually taste as they deserve.
life is to drink it when it comes ... Tomorrow may be too late.
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