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Small instruments

created to measure the quality of perishable man.

Torture reminds you that nothing is eternal life

slipping from their hands.

Fragmentation of existence in twelve parts

repetitive and unchanging. Tic tacs

like to listen again and again and

each

a moment that will never happen again.

materialization of what was visible only

in physical havoc in mortals,

as if this were not enough to know ourselves

finite.

Run and try to go faster than him.

Sometimes we want to stop,

to take some advantage.

But even with all

stop could remedy those ravages. Those clocks corporeal

employing

cracks in the face as a numbers

hands and presses irregular

are inescapable biological instruments and functional

perhaps from the origin of life.

are born with them laugh, feel, cry.

live just hours and necessary.

And then we completed the turn.

Once there,

no more,

no less.

Some think that deep down we

eternal souls, but in reality

are just bodies with a workload

be respected.

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We are the strokes of a neurotic who experiences in his paintings, jerky and awkward movements draws us, and just being an attempt at a masterpiece that was never and will never see the light in an art gallery.
One idea he tried to come to life but was never finished, a project abandoned halfway, the work of a painter who died in poverty and anonymity before completing his painting summit.
A piece of fabric for the fungus of the humidity of a dark and empty, pale colors of watercolor with the passage of time, and some lines that are blurred, which are lost in nothingness.
And so, what was once intended to be a bright image and full of life, ends up being a fuzzy set which differs only a faint outline graceless.
We are the immature fruit, the incomplete part, the success unattainable.
It is sad that someone has put enthusiasm, creativity and expectations, something that turned out to be another failure in a project that never leave the shed, and be covered with dust and cobwebs, screaming be discovered in a place where no one can distinguish it from the trash.

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would be so easy if I could get rid of it
In his hands, his eyes, nails and hair. With joy

observe the perspective from which they know life
temporal fading like a cloud in the sky
the bouncing gently. New
cells, new fabrics (new threads). Interpretations
not represent me.
Sensations
today are outside when I want to be the stranger.
what I would not want to be, but who would be
is a person who know. How I can assure
therefore that would be him?
was faced with two paths:
lose what's left of me trying to be him
Or try to be me losing what remains of that desire to be him.
As I write, I'm
tedious interval between them.

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The world is a rotten apple
From
And everyone eats whose seeds germinate

Parallel Worlds Smaller and less mushy
Destined to take the same color
of its predecessor. Multiple bites

Thousands of mouths to feed mouths Miles
refer
At Eden
What ever met Eva
Or tried to meet.
However, contrary to that intent First,
knew us.
worms erupted at the opening of the fruit was acquired freedom

That those who were not released.
And what are those larvae as an apple tree full of gleaming

lipstick is not for the weak support
of tempting treats that hide the potential waste.
Yes, the world is a rotten apple
And we, the worms that have become corrupted.

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had not yet dawned, but the distance could be heard singing in the air albatross. I imagined her flying techniques, their acrobatics. Perceived his grace, and in some ways, wanted to be them, thousands of them, envied freedom knew those wings.
While I imagined myself being one pelagic bird, my eye fell on a group who had flown in a spiral to land on the water surface, to seal their fate pale peaks of the crustaceans that were within reach. Parallel to my admiration for the species, developed in me a sense of inferiority to her, I felt a crustacean, a small plankton, an easy prey. Birds flew
disappear into the horizon, and took between his feathered utopias endless once belonged to me, but no longer served me, which was approached ajenas.Me to the shore, I dipped my feet, and with eyes closed, I longed in vain the breeze dry my tears. Opening his eyes
was tempted by that immensity, seemed sucked into its depths, a kind of enchantment. And as it penetrated me, my body changed in size, my skin became translucent antennae grew on the back of my head. Tears had desaparecido.En
first I thought it would have mixed with ocean water, and then I realized that no llora.Me artemia approached the surface and stayed there, hoping that albatrosses return.