The Thin Human Line and the Digital Explosion

You love the touch of your hand Your body without floor As on an orange bed of fog It seems you do not hold hand You are twelve feet tall It is more sensual a road without frontiers Nobody touches your footprints A desire to open with your index finger And your liquid-crystal eyes a cloister with thousands of years to polish the sound of your brain and to walk farther than any limits or directions sustaining all without a sound and a body. Where the line ends or if there is nobody it does not matter.