La historia del mundo tiene una mano defectuosa: nos hizo separados y distantes, solos y distantes. Y a pesar de todo, el azar nos ha reunido. Ahora queda retenerte entre las turbulencias. Mira, amor: huiste . Esos son tus excesos: las huidas. Vuelve tu juego a repetirse. Se remueve la noche, se libera; y a penas, el destino se angustia. Noche presente: nido de víboras.
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