martes, 28 de septiembre de 2010


How do I buy a door big enough to fit in a giant named Time.
And if the door is huge enough I could also throw in Time's giant wife: Feelings.
This door has to be so big and so enormous that is has to bend the space-time-continuum so it can reach Time's long lost son: Past. Once they enter through the aforementioned door and reach him there, the door ought to be shut down... So Present (Time's actual son) can only peek through the door and whisper secrets and news to those across the door without being touch or seen.


They flutter, ram the walls, make us choke when we talk, they twist our tongues, shut down our entire system but in spite of all that, they make us feel great, alive, full of dreams and hopes.

Shall we set them free, smack them or just live with them throughout our whole lives, well... Time will only decide which is the right course for the butterflies to take.

It is not

It is not about the written poems, the unsung songs, the radiant blasphemy or the banal words;
when we choke on an uncivilized argument we feel the tiger roaring and slashing out,
slashing through layers, slayers, like a hitman with a bills right or a priest who can't find the inner demons he lost once but whom are waiting for im just across the glass.

It is not about the casual sex with the redhead woman you met while waiting for the hand of faith to tap you on the shoulder, it is not destiny, not a purpose,
it's just a random causality mixed and spiked with good luck.

It is not about the were's or was', we live in here and before is just a smoked-up cigar,
we see the ashes, we smell the ashes, we get dirty with them, but that is all that is: ashes
...and the butt of the old cuban is dim, smelly and almost dead.

It is that, and nothing else.