Eres del lugar del maullido, de la agorafobia, de las manos y de la noche, del único lugar donde el mundo no esta vacío. Eres la instalación de la noche con tus labios incluida. Para ser adicto soy adicto del blanco de tus ojos. Para ser tiempo soy el tiempo de tus manos. Y tú, tormenta y memoria, me cortas con tu aliento las hojas del tiempo.
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