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Sunday, October 15, 2017

Outside the cities run: Elia Casillas

Outside the cities run, I continue in the warm hand of August and I see in parentheses the gatuperio that I support with laughter. I go back through my bones and the fingers arman this involuntary condemnation: where I write. The chest closes its dark sentinels. Sun by the way I go with patience nowhere, the stained glass of my moon loses tones and my flesh is dirt and empty in the puddle of blue. It darkens on the canvas that the infinite ignites and revives the light of the comets with their most beloved fire.





Navojoa Sonora. February / 2008







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