Here I am tuck in the margin on this yellow piece of paper trying to capture, among the fibers of its old cellulose, the pictures that metabolize in my retinas.

Some colored metastasis that permeates with each one of the letters that my hands draw with its frenetic rhythm. A failed attempt to scrawl the world every time I skin from my entrails.

Entrails. That they articulate so much freedom the muscles that weave the pan of ink where I spill the feelings that closer to me the lights of a new dawn.

Bright twinkles that implode inside my grey matter, endowing my neurons with a new food to feed their connective stomachs to satisfy their selfish longing of knowledge once and for all.


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