Kabbalistic Language
write because I have not found a better way to touch you, or another avenue that this road of words from which I can show you a planetary system that I still have a deep estimate . How ensure that the day is sunk without object into irregular streets of the city? How to prevent escapes, you disappear to turn a corner? Here you get a buzz and your breath is the vapor of the ink to dry, this is the place to go off or where you expect me to sleep. Here it's always night when I come back after getting lost in routine, or after the chase, along with other crows, objects whose brightness was false. I acquire here that background that I carry, because it is not only your sex, or the magnet of your breasts overwhelmed in the table, not your stomach that ends in a black oasis. I write because it's not just your body and I nervous walking the suicide on the roof nor only time. It is rather a way for rolling vowels and sweat for your labios.Tú come here to collect what you need that depth, the following without which the months turn to no avail. But finding your own will not leave you: you think you are not completely, that is not yours you move your arm from the door when you say goodbye, that hand too interested in digging my papers can not be yours and your face little has to do with the line that will extend through the channel of these lines. And it is true, this certainly does not belong to you and this disagreement. Nothing here is like nothing, but each image is your image and every smile out of you. This is where I write a longer course a glance or a gesture path. Here, the smoke and calligraphy, make you lower eyelids and extend your body. Because in the end no good is elusive: neither mutilated flock of angels that flutter in the dream, or the days you do not remember a week going over and over again, not your mouth that seeks to escape through the left side of this page where you appear stretched free will. Are that hill momentarily as the waves of the paper, when my hand felt hindered by your appearance go back surface or placing dots and accents. And as you read these words, without being able to avoid, but you lower your voice, vibrating your lips and the sound travels you will piel.Después silence the streets that stretch until dawn and sleep for solitary lamps till morning, and will, no doubt about it, the endless drip of the alphabet with his phrases. After these words, let's see where my fingers turned into syllables they move over and get wet. Then there will be anything: at most a fingerprint to be deleted in your neck or on your waist. But now, understand, and not words you hear: the sound of the pen to draw your consonants, is the score that moves through your legs and spelling moons brand: your body is finally gasped.
Text taken from my book God does play dice.
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