And now that you're not, at least not for naming you, the road disappears under letters extinct, those that were written in ink invisible, legible only under two pairs of eyes staring at the ends of words, the insolent, the strong, the hurtful, which never had a voice, but that everything said in the absence of vowels and consonants, left to sound the prayers, knowing that everything that he had a plan worked out one iota, nor an indicator of what was necessary to express, perhaps for fear, perhaps out of caution, those who join and syllables refuse, damaged more than all the imagined literary hand, like a great story for completion in the absence of perfect ending, right knot, the outcome that will shed light on the facts ... and yet, with all that talkative floating in the ceremony of memories, I feel there is much to say, but l exes are you still being so close ... l Etrasa the written slowly, to avoid having to express more than a unison nothing.
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