already starts the machine melancholy. The grinding of the gears can be heard in the solitude of the night. He wakes up the pain, that rotten angel flutters in the corners.
that vault is entered in which the bones wet recognize eyes, stomach revive perfume and temples that pulsate to the rhythm of words that may never have heard but resonate in an echo deep in their own repetition.
And the images do not expect, is reveal without permission. The machine always has on hand a good supply of cool images to feed the flame of remorse and promote what-have-been-if, the how and why. With precision
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