sure that if he saw her as it is now. Slowly into oblivion, still tilts the bottle and set fire to the hundredth cigarette.
She thinks, but is blurred. If the spring on the boulevard is not enough to distract from the million pixels in front of him there is a reason.
She enjoys her solitude, like a goddess fallen. He looks around and sees over in contempt because he knows that an excess passenger is just stupid entertainment for one evening, and nothing more.
know what is easy to get carried away by the depth of a black Goya, knows how far away the life he sees in the mirror, you know what the fresh leaves on the tops of the plane to tell the truth. The rain stops and falls asleep, but what is really far away its freedom? How many hours
count the days that separate it from his real life? If you feel dirty is not only for twelve hours have passed since the last shower, if her hair offer resistance to the fingers passing through them is not only a shortage of balsam. Missing him.
Here she lies and half closes his eyes to the moon. Life to the dream is just a physiological time. And tomorrow will be the same.
He's fine, because he knows that his dreams never do not equal the daylight hours. And happy sleeping.
The Giant (or The Colossus), by Francisco Goya - 1808 Oil on canvas, 120 x 100 cm Museo del Prado, Madrid.
(C) 
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