Allí donde no grita nadie, grito. Es la historia de mi boca: grito. Grita la lengua de gritos de carne. Gritan los labios de aire. Grita el sudor ennegrecido. Y si tus manos vinieran a tapar el grito, muerden. Allí están las sombras del grito, sus cadenas y hambre. Se comen los gritos la ausencia, el mal y la vida.
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