Semanas antes, horas antes, estuve a punto de la tristeza. Me llevaba la vaca del Tiempo; tentado por sus dulces ubres, parecía entonces, ese mundo defectuoso menos imperfecto. A pesar de todo, morir. Sacarle el dedo a lo vivido, si no la lengua o el punta pie. ¿De qué te sacias si de mi amor no quisiste? Renueva la noche y ella sola.
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