Everything. Then. Wind. She slows down on the edge of our lips. A brushstroke on the meat. With her air logic over her meat logic. Away meat. Sadness generates the flesh. Play to make it perfect, smooth and tasty. Antidote to grief. Sadness is not afraid. Play and jump on the circles of absence. She is wrapped in fabrics spun by the hands of magic. With the remains that are lost, he builds the magic little boxes of Pandora, immune to the jumble of the seas and the fluttering of winds, taking what is locked in the shadow of the drift to the distant door of Hell.