Real and artificial stories
Sometimes I just sit there and think. In such moments of a cafe, against the sea, but the imagination. I do this often, I mean, it's a thinking thing, but this time, I'm flying in a strange unbalanced particle.
Unrelated to each other, do not complement each other, no use for me, the crumbling thoughts on my head colliding in front of my feet crumbling.
The woman announcer at the time; some of this race, some of this race, the rest of the race announced by the other race. Someone's bodies are more important, some are more mother, more children.
The announcer continues with her usual mastery as she learns of the destroyed houses, the cities, the history and the memories she learns. I wonder if his heart is such an announcer. Is it taught to the tears as they are taught to their descending hair like ready-mixed concrete?
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