too often.
Nothing seems changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night resurgent real life we knew. We must resume where we left it, and takes hold of us a terrible sense of continuity necessary energy, in the same circles esteotipadas fastidious habits .... or maybe ....
.... maybe a wild hope that our eyelids open some morning upon a world that had been created anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have other secrets, a world in which the past would take little or no place or survival, however, the form that is unconscious of its bitterness, and the memory of pleasure, their dence of constant change. In defining gives us the possibility that every morning or every time you open your eyes, really open up, as if each might be the first in an ongoing birth.
And that is the reality around us becomes mute and silent in an inexorable change as life itself, that possesses us every corner of our body and soul into their course: in the beauty of its endless stealth transfiguration.
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