Starmie want to listen?
one day I was digging a trench, dug because I do not know, I just know that the earth was cool and damp, it seemed snow. It was a pit in the middle of something, I can not tell exactly what, but probably a garden, or a road or field, or you choose.
while digging, the arm muscles swelled and softened in outline, almost oozing metal and the blade was so loyal to my movements that fought the tears from his eyes impatiently to get out and meet the cold air. did not know that he could cut.
maybe I wanted to plant a fig or an apple tree or a palm tree, or pick you.
but the action itself was too much for the anything to be able to say exactly what I was going to crash. the most mechanical of the world sinks the blade, extract the soil, breathe.
a trivial situation like that at some point I decided it was planted. head. my head, as it was, straight directly into the pit, without stops or traffic lights, and a second in the land of snow settled in the nostrils of my nose, my mouth, in the eyes, in the midst of the hair, as bitter as poison, and black with a smell so pungent you came into the stomach. in full. without that air, without that light, without that perfume: my new home at the end of the world.
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