Sometimes I don't know who it is, sometimes I don't know who it is, and I can't stop telling myself this every time with the most starry sentences at night. It's like there are centuries and little secrets that those nights know, and they can stay right where these syllables want to lean on. Torment, I do not keep silent because I am the first child that burns there, I go out there, and I die in between. Because even in the most unlikely accusations of separation, I like to breathe the same limp air. And I dedicate what I'm going to say to the whirlpool of those faulty states. No matter how miracle it is that I am standing or surviving in this time, I am offering him the most beautiful poem.
A little for him, a little for this, a little for you, a little for me, but beyond that there is always a summer, I drink it to its best pleasures. This is my apology, my childhood, my despair, if you accept it, welcome...