Estábamos en el torbellino de la lluvia y de las noches haciendo piruetas de amor y cama. Se asomaba el naranjo por la ventana. Pretendíamos borrar el futuro para protegernos. Manteníamos los días y las horas muertas. Éramos las almas del perpetuo movimiento, perfectas, sin conciencia. Perdíamos el sentido de la memoria, sin hambre del saber, sin incertidumbre ni misterio.
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