So you can from us. Of his lived. Of how the hours you see. For now you see. Flat fruits. Like intimate ground. Where the cherries of resentment fall. Of those unfortunates weak of hope. The same when intimacy was awakened. Of death. Scavenger of time. On his come to remember the holes. Its limits open to the wind. From the cultivation of the gaze under secrecy. For the love of travel. Of in you. As return. Which is always measured in a spiral on itself. Squirming. Curving space. Thrown on our hands. On which the world extends.