Y la tierra brotaba en lo negro, empujaba sola borracha, se hizo movimiento. Así como las bocas solas, blancas, aisladas, muerden de amor oscuro... Supongo que me toca imaginar lo que sientes, tú, dudosa e incierta; tú, con tus preguntas extrañas y gigantes. Me urge tu futuro, como una edad acabada, como un hecho del sueño, como el silencio que la voz hace.
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