Como si hubiesen olvidado el misterio de las sombras. Distantes del enigma. Creerse otro. En alguna parte dormimos refugiados, encerrados en la triste avaricia, carcomidos por el silencio, lento, lento, como gota de agua prehistórica del encierro. Parecemos manos febriles de desconocimiento, cruzadas a golpe de destino.
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