CROSSROADS

Abstract

It’s not meaningful let them aside, not wanting to give an end to this reformed speech. We get together in the old childhood house, we feel its hand under our steps, we give it back to the roots the origin of our feet, we explore the silence of the halls, the cracks on the walls and, inflaming the nostril, relive the curdle sighs and the whispers of life, we let the prays, we set fire to the faith and the shadows while underground groans ascent from the rocks creak, this beaten mass, from the meat we do the biggest house, sweating the blood in this shallow gash, hurting the palms, pointing our presences in the bosom of the old house, spying through the fissures like beast, the same intermittent steel of the scream. Each space speck, each beyond shore, each piece is a valley that shelter the simples. The rift words, in the dead’s teeth, in the gods, each one with their promise. In the crowds, each one is the center of the universe that gets apart on the next crossroads. The inner of the shapes skim plain empty, the whole matter does not stem, like a misunderstood, one that modifies everything, a negative sigh on the sum. I plan to get, here and there, an image that is satisfied with the blink of the eyes, a scratch on the mirror that makes me back together so fast like if I was made of nothing. Maybe what I want with these images is to be a man soulless. Maybe my ardors are overflows and shapes. Maybe I am a rehearse. Or even, I am just attitudes that sometimes are interrupted by a view that allows me to live.