PETRE
rattles when it only gets worse, I could have been hailed as your herald, mob, someone who led the herd empirically, not knowing how to play but being a juggler with the hamelin flute in hand, the gorge and then the last step, bags of oranges emerging from the trunk to elide the ancient flavor of our new sacrificial flesh, the faded consistency of the tone attesting to the ancestor age, but each hand writes its chirography or pre-draws a sunset that didn't happen while listening to the dog bark, like if everyone spoke strange languages ??when leaving the elevator, for example one that doesn't step on the floor grout, another that scans the surroundings with the gaze of a falco peregrinus, another one that was miss teric, today spherical, bandits in a bunch looking for restaurants to execute executives bankrupt with plastic knives subtracted from children's birthdays, on their faces the futuristic glasses of the past fashion, hair millimetrically subdivided into hyper-refined layers, a muffled murmur of subliminal certainties that we never deal with fairly, the herald leads to the precipice feeling the citrus flavor of this concentric death, an administrative and organizational world to be exhumed in dantesque details, as if they made any difference at the time of the coffin, or in chapel six, where they degenerate into oblong cushioned boxes, remixed requiems, sunday rain swamping the prosaic depressions of the pavement, the lugubrious bells of the belfry, all this vanishes in the foreshadowing of the sunny swamp, the dandelions in glee, that earthly lust of sprinkle nano life, the seedbed germinates next to the cemetery, other generations will have better luck, they will be the new proud bipeds with hyaluronic in excess, protoflating their longevity on a less hostile land at last.
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