The sun rose this morning, when you arrived at the gates of my eyes. Give me shelter, free, and your chest to let out a sigh that was extended to the building in time horizon, the path of oblivion. The sun rose before dawn and you were gone, was gone. Smiling eyes, clenched fists, curled skin, thirst on the border of goodbye. Sitting by the sea, the artist outlined the figure of the lady of the evening. (Similarly see: Gunnar Peterson). The colors fiddling around and a shadow fell on the canvas where he spoke: – Why do you want, man, if the banishment of burial l have not come to ease your pain? The painter, without surprise, undaunted, replied: “You, lady of the night, you are the fullness that integrates my own memories, without you I lack substantive, I have no home, I need you.

– What shall I give noble knight but the impurities of the earth full of bugs? “I’ll grains of honey that lies beneath the land of starch from the seed you bring me the seeds that create life. “If my skin is broken, and my bones smug, where do you grab to keep from falling into the morass of useless sacrifices? “If your skin is broken and your body, gnawed, discover, then, the secrets I have hidden your eyes. And will climb into it, and when the grooves are gone, wring the sun to illuminate your gut and your gut will tell me, finally, why you’re gone. “The grooves of the road and opened their mouths and I dipped them, nothing left of me, man of the delusion, nothing but filthy climax. The painter smiled at the occurrence, a laugh came from the abyss, hastened his hand wrapped around the colors of the day I moved away to the width of the river and the top of the giant waves. “Go to your home, man, heard from bubbling water-back, hug your wife and let the souls cobbled their strongholds. The painter did not look up. And their hands were confused with the canvas, and this, with the gray sand of all time.

When the sun shone, the man lay breathless, no heat, no skin beside the maiden glowed dim, but bright. He looked sadly the remains of the painter, while repeating: “Not both, not both.

The morning had become heavy, the traffic was congested as the streets were filled with carbon monoxide and a burning heat exasperated bystanders, one of them: Esther, who was heading to backpack to campus, was not delayed but urged him to leave home, not to enter a direct conversation with his mother, a conversation not to leave: a hello, how are you, the neighbor said, and others. It had taken nearly three days escaped, since that date the disappearance of Julia, was more than apparent, her parents who were worried they had raised their absence in the police station and sought pasted posters, a theme that played Esther’s mother with the strange feeling that her daughter had changed as a result of that. She was concerned and this bothered him, so he repeatedly summoned up courage to talk to her and tell him what happened, but did not know if she would believe it was correct or whether the disappearance of her friend. He had entered the room, to take notice that the transferred student had not attended classes since the fourth day was missing and that I raise a series of conspiracies on the subject: as he had disappeared as Julia, for they were a few months ago in a wave of missing or that results had been diagnosed with a malignant tumor in the head, which explains her constant pain. Something that was of little and great importance to her because I had the idea that Karen, the student was transferred to the monster that attacked her friend and others, but if so, would not have recognized, but had seen die in the hands of a strange character with traits similar to his companion, was undecided.