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calling to water on a cowardly cloth, hiding inside a mad brain.

Nothing is fl eeting, just like the ocean day by day, arriving, to shine at its own funeral. Like this, you are out of key with your time, your every second, an epic ba le.

In an instant no loss, no escape, within the briefness of eternity, we hold the physicality of myth.

Man is no mystery, there is simply no one living inside him. His only talent is the world.

And yet, there is a place that doesn’t belong in the universe, a crack escaping the world to never return: and in this crack is when he knows his death.

The light doesn’t fi t him, like large fl aps of skin the days he has le to live, time crawls precariously

68 leopoldocastilla

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