dusk arrived, the trail becomes dark and gives the passer serene journey of our own dreams. There where the leaves turn sharp eyes watching us ice cream, as taken from our own inner ghosts, lurking branches simulating arms, move in rhythm by a melodic wind pushing us and we removed. Where the grasshoppers seem unusual beings and two foreign components crammed into our minds as an infectious fungus: the desire to cross the road quickly and the desire to live like a pack of wolves, roaring through the trees fleeing the human race and raising the dust of the road between our legs, the rapid pace with the galloping fur rhythmically, taking refuge under the weather at the top of the mountain above him head up our splendid steppe and sound from depths of our human throat howl more we are able to sing.
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