| Cortázar came to greet me. I was out there. Absorbed. With extreme shortage of minutes to sit in front of the screen and lovingly nurture the soul. A "small." My small. He learned to ride a bicycle, had taken to step back and unlearn things. He walked his days as disoriented by the minute and he urged his mother to see if it was somewhere lost points. Vowels, consonants and syllables, such that slowly had been allowed to read "My mom spoils me." The other "great." My great. He went rambling. Finding their own ways, thirsty for adventure. Curious, questioning and weighing down my few free hours. In large has given the music. Live lately between the keyboard, flute and guitar, notes, flats, and quavers ... While I definitely have not been able to be at its height. Over there I was. Somewhat embarrassed by the scarcity of time to return so many friendly visits. Desperate for many digital watches and the other filled with numbers and sticks. Hourglasses eager to do the time "a little different," more still, more languid and serene. I was there and came Cortázar. Came to visit me and I felt honored. Also embarrassed even scope to prepare for your visit. He just came, filling my hours affectionately. Came and looked at him carefully. He came and read it, reread it. He came and listened. If so I heard. I heard that voice, that sound, with an "R" sound and dragged me apart, I disarmed. And there I was, and time and again it did not matter my little hourglass to mark the rhythms of my hours. And the minutes did not matter, the hours, either, just matter of listening of this prose is wonderful. And with Cortázar were announced vowels and syllables for "small" and tiny flowered new musical journeys for "big." Several of you who read me patiently, had warned me, and I stubborn, he was wandering with Borges. And I kept Cortázar in the heart, "Continuity of Parks", "The flattening of the drops," "The River", the reading of "Rayuela", his wonderful instructions to mourn and sing, those for to wind the clock ... for now I'll take his drops ... Crushing drops I do not know, look, it's terrible how it rains. rains all the time, thick and gray outside, here against the balcony set, and hard drops, they do splash and flatten as slapping one after another, what boredom. Now a droplet appears at the top of the window frame; stays shaking against the sky that shatters into a thousand shine off and rises and staggers, and will not fall down and still not fall. is fastened with nails all, does not fall, it is seen that clings to the teeth, while her belly grows, it is a hanging gotaza majestic zup and suddenly, there he goes, wham, undone, nothing, a viscosity in the marble. But you have to commit suicide and delivered quickly sprout in the frame and throw right there, I seem to see the vibration of the jump, his legs off and the cry that the drunk in that none of the fall and annihilate. Drops sad, innocent round drops. Goodbye drops. Bye. |
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