We were in that crime of falling in love with the taste of vertigo

 We were in that crime of falling in love with the taste of vertigo hanging like the keys to the clothesline on clothes exposed to the air of living books whose leaves fall off were the books the children of the plague did not give us more resentment than the resentment that we gave And they searched for each other from their wounds and we bled followed us all the sheep counted in all the insomnia