Cae la sal de mis manos verdes, de este mundo de fantasía. Es un remoto mundo en el fondo de los ojos. Un mundo donde se sacrifican los imposibles. Allí los dientes caen de su equilibrio, producen dolor de caída, y desmayos. Se abre el precipicio de la mente. Se toman los riesgos de los libros. Se emborrona el paisaje interior del refugio. Y sobre un punto se paran las sombras del agua.
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