sin título
There's a road that cuts through unscathed trees, undisturbed in their ancient slumber. Follow Eighteenth Street twenty miles east. Leave behind you towers that have devirgined the sky, see them dwindle to a pinpoint, then disappear. The sky will turn from ashy grey to an azure blue and you, you will see that all along you were never really breathing. The heat from the streetlights caused a sweat to break out, soaking your sheets in restlessness as the noise picks your window lock, hidden by the shadows of apartment complexes. You have never seen the moon, not even at night when it sings an opera for a world that has forgotten how to listen. But driving Eighteenth east you see a white shape sitting opposite the sun, a small thumbnail slice. And you wonder who is behind the screen, peeling back the oil painted landscape, and wonder what lies beyond this tranquil solitude.
