Some time ago, my life and its course do not walk, they do not roll, they do not repeat, it is the same here and outside. The silence with its laughter in my presences, flies: a revolver aims and we are on the floor, in the sky full of prayers all touch, nobody attends. The corpses shout, in avenues and deserts they roar. The females and their cross on the posters are a pink nest in the trash. Nobody notices the acid that spreads the crime, a liquid is the same as a furnace, from there nobody jumps, nobody emerges, nobody sings, we are alone, although they say the opposite. The Homeland is not first, neither do we. We die to much, we are a fist of coffee in the sea of tears. Some time ago, my life is not what I believed.
Navojoa, Son. May/1/2018