Estás gris, como recién sacada de la tristeza, de ese duro horno de la carne. Llevabas tiempo sobre la hoja del cuchillo. Y una tarde te hizo comprender. Eras de aquellos que llevan la noche, la festividad, por allí por donde pasa el vuelo de los pájaros, esa carta suspendida que nunca llega, en el casi, en el talvez.
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