Íbamos a campo abierto en nocturna fuga, como si el texto de la vida fuese un tobogan. Acostumbraba el mar estar a solas, sin olas, sin fachada, puro mar de profundidad y agua, aunque al amanecer, a veces, como un columpio se balanceaba, asustado y solo, en las cuatro esquinas de los tiempos. Era perfecto: un mar de muros irregulares, ejecutando melancólicamente el tiempo en las puestas de sol de los ojos muertos.
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