tzarowski @ 2007-03-12T15: 07:00
- To you, restless, always filling up your bags and helping to dust mine that will go away with memories of your looks.
way ticket across the Atlantic.
The earth is nothing, the sea was filled with the salt tears aquellxs who left no will own the land they grew up. And come the waves that were born in Montevideo the coast of Galicia, and you and I look the same horizon, the same moon, the sun itself not hot enough while you're not.
miles of hope, dreams and illusions
(as always) that the city
not be silent under the roar of a hundred thousand other (this time).
I leave and come back.
I will leave the way back to yesterday morning and full of smiles. The tears they fall on my return to Madriz must be tremendous, powerful. Mark the asphalt. My boots
'll shut the mouths of those who set the course. The road is to walk. Walking is fighting for life with no destination.
You stay dead, Madriz. The streetlights do not prevent the decay of your existence. Malasaña is no rat's nest or by Huertas letters fall out of windows.
way ticket.
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