Jugábamos al amor a destiempo del precipicio. La cuchilla de la espera cortaba el silencio. ¡Te tengo tanta soledad perpleja, imprevista y larga, torpe como el miedo! De esa inquietud testifico; de ese terror bastardo. El miedo se oculta a veces, breve, íntimo y profundo, en su fondo interminable.
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