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Night falls (again).

Nobody knows, but a trail of sighs slips through the cracks of the blinds closed.

A group of children laughing and playing in the yard.
not know, but they are swimming in sighs. Sighs anonymous.





Sighs drowned behind the glass of any window.

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The days are like beads on an abacus. Uniform, heavy, monotonous. One, two, three, four ... recite a hollow echo of wood, without rhythm or rhyme, or intonation. One, two, three, four ... days in a calendar labeled with a pen without ink, just enough pressure to not tear the paper but do not leave a note hover color on that surface anodically white. Hours, minutes and seconds are hanging from the neck in a hug lethargic, sickly parasites eager to swallow every last drop of blood from a dead body too.

thinking is nothing but the murmur of a broken skull against the floor, sobbing looking for their chips, while the skin bubbles up under a scorching sun. Evening mist soaks and ghosts