I lost my name. Yet what sense is it in looking for it? You knew I would do it. You knew I would come back to you: my feet burned, my eyes full of sand, my heart crushed like an empty can of coke, my hands voided like those of King Lear.
It was as easy as you said. One day the celebration of the tree of light would be over, and nobody would dress in black at funerals.
This is that day.
The day in which the sun – eyes bloodshot, rays pale like distant memories – dies in the rose and violet of the sea.
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