Desde el fuego te imaginaba, y. Todo aquello me pareció sublime. Era una tarde y no estabas, y nadie. Me pesaba el rostro y el dolor, la falta y el coraje. Se rendían los párpados bajo el insomnio, y la noche indefinida. Dos metros de ruido infernales. Un carro de horas. Llamadas intermitentes de teléfono, y. La demencia me daba la espalda, no me escuchaba, me aborrecía. Y, gritos.
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