Se ha corrompido el desorden de nuestras manos mientras el recuerdo se pasea solo por las calles. Me dueles; a trocitos me dueles. Se precipita la confianza por las calles del tiempo como bolas grises de las manos de los niños inocentes. Botan, ruedan y botan, chocan, suenan contra la dureza del asfalto. Y allí, muy lejos, acaban siendo diminutas como grises copos de nieve.
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