Dog Not Music The fool believed to carry a mask and was happy about that. The birds surrounded him, or so I thought, and its flight was short, and the word was final. The madman is tired of the quiet days, the appearance of the precipice of his time. Had always been weak, moody, and neighbors had taken a liking. But he knew insightful and lucid, and translated the world into your language. As with Rosa, who was a love, and eyes made him and he knew that feeling would have considered any other course, for him to reach a deeper sense, linked to the bird's flight, yes, and with the wind morning and the sun and old friends. The madman is tired of staying upright as furniture, while the world gave him material for translation. The crazy world known mechanisms, as you know a tailor of needles and sometimes felt special. Sometimes they stopped and watched a film on the sidewalk, tree branches or threatening, to decipher its meaning in the order of time. The fool always drank wine because he knew the land he was trying to love without success. Crazy doubted the honesty of plants and animals, but I thought the word was hidden in the cracks of what could be seen and heard, because otherwise it would be pointless. He never expected any other music. He was happy in his determination.
While her flesh keep rocking, crazy world tried the heroic way, accepting the apparent coordinates. His final was anything but holy. When he was accountable was just a heap of meat dipped in frayed fabric. He appeared before the court in which he did not believe, before the judge that he was always indifferent. Before the curse (which was peremptorily away), he was entitled to the last word.
- I mean, now that the end of the meat I ordered the ideas and has revived my neurons, I have not been more than a man among men, a machine of thirst and hunger, desire and feeling of absence . Now that you're through with life and death, Judge, that and my lungs do not work, nor my stomach, and my eyes can not see, for there is nothing, nor my soul and the voice reaches other souls, and I can not contemplate the mountains you've killed your presence. Now, I say, you're missing what yours has been more than anything else, what you've admired for a million years: your word has been imposed on what was alive ...
The crazy left early and his distance was not punishment but just a nostalgic bitterness of one who has been confirmed in a useless idea. No one cared because the madman. His soul was wandering through the cracks that were not the God Almighty to bless now and looking for meat, the family and the tree, persistently aware of their loss, day and night while listening to the echoes of love for all eternity.
