Sometimes you can make fun of time. Hide. The movement of others makes you move in the peloton. You pay attention to every little detail around you. You make mosaics with the images. You dream with your eyes open. You can. You feel like you live.

Sometimes you can make fun of time. Hide. The movement of others makes you move in the peloton. You pay attention to every little detail around you. You make mosaics with the images. You dream with your eyes open. You can. You feel like you live.

You are traveling. Without looking for the fire. A tourist. You devote time. You live free. Away from shadows, you discover the new light.

An invisible thread. Ties the tomorrow with you. You never meet the end of it. A face. Can answer. Questions never asked.
Many in the centuries. Hermes of the few. Aspirations with compost lives. They bear bad fruit.
Lacking words. Hushed distance. The eyes shine antithetically. Bodies compressed. Behaviors. Parallel lines. Ravenous breathes. Searching. Next to others. Grasping as much air as they can. To unify the mouths. Midway. In one sometime and one tomorrow.

You stop at the page. Life does not exist. Your words. They stand in a state of attention. Your order is not heard. History can wait. Breathe as much as you need.
One step away. To stand on the wet ground. Summer rain watered her. You inhale. Perfume of paradise.
The days are blooming fertilized by dreams. You take care of the eyes of the heart. To stay open. For your garden to grow big. To hide the ugly things.
In another gear. You carry Cross and dreams. Scary freedom. You know new frontiers. You beat time.
Stopped. You lose the count. Chapters open. Doors are open around you. You’re dreaming.
As if you were born yesterday.