I do not like talking about myself, but of tiny portions of life that work as a whole, small molecular gears that perform tasks innate, never cuestionan.Materia gray bow down to their organic chemical buffoons, and shapes them through a movement or a nervous reaction, never my , but those t-nfimas parts of life that serve as the All . I can only recognize as a sponge that absorbs the outside. The environment around me, yes, is me-o, but not the ways to assimilate and respond to él.Yo'm not who controls me, I am the means by which power an inordinate amount of entities of different f-foward . They all expressed through the figure grouped up, which is visible to the outside as a body, like the sponge . What conveys the look is not only what was subordinated to show, what the audible voice is a message that forced compartir.Ahora, someone tells me to write these lines, show me and puts words in a particular order under the action of the hand that the outside looks like me-a, but in reality they . I obey, but I would like to grow other hands in this body, hands I belong , and flow down the sponge to be emptied of any content to leave it in its primitive state.
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