Los nunca nos amenazan, sueltos al capricho, antojos que tenemos como internos remolinos que levantan las vísceras a cientos de metros del suelo, de las paredes internas de la carne. Intentan salir por la boca en el ahogo. Vuelan las cuchillas del silencio; gaviotas de pan. Dan vueltas y esperan cortando el mar. No paran de inscribirse, no cesan de escribirse, compulsivamente. Antes de que se acabe la hoja, el texto, la superficie de la carne. Se inscribe de los nunca la letra.
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