Los trenes ya no circulan en círculos, hacia el mismo lugar, hacia nuestras manos. Suena cada silbido a un adiós. Con inquietud retuerce mi cuello, me exige el alma, aunque ya sabes que está muerta. Tal vez quiera regodearse en lo putrefacto de la carne. Tal vez quiera mirarse por última vez en el opaco cristal de los ojos blancos para cerciorarse de haber acometido el golpe final a la vida que ha sido.
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