Han quedado algunos rincones como citas inacabadas. Huelen a aquello que no se ha hecho, a pasos torcidos, a rincones de ropa mojada. ¿Qué pretende esta noche con este duro insomnio, mitad mentiras, mitad delirios, locuras de las profundidades? ¡Que difícil es mentir cuando uno duerme! Duele como un dolor de fondo, subterráneo, indefinible. Y si uno se pone a hablar, son gritos, internos, sin boca, de la carne.
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