The sand that remains stuck on your feet soles while walking around the house after consciously cleaning.
Is the orange sun, the jump from summer to winter that covers the skin by driving over yellow-almost-red stop lights and watches that our souls won’t colapse with each others.
The clothes attached to the body with that adhesive smell of the sweat.
Is the fact of being the border and connational of all the other ones.
The gusts of wind exciting the tumbleweeds that run to say hi and shout on the avenues. The shockings to remind us that it is there.
Is the moan, lament and consolation of the masive production.The comfortable cradle that rocked my presure to form me different.
