Echabas el vuelo como buscando el tiempo, la risa, localizando todo como un viajero. Era grave tu forma de vivir. Cantabas durante el viaje, incluso durmiendo y desprevenida. Coral. Con historias en el pecho. Mordiendo las paredes para encontrar respuestas. Corredores estrechos. Historias del me voy, del no sé y me consuelo, de paisajes perdidos, aire, verdor, sinfonía. Y he aquí donde te preguntabas abierta.
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