Violeta's belly rises and falls like a horizon that wants to play ball and be throw with no time or floor or ceiling. Alexis's head is left on the skin accompanied him tastes like butter and saliva map. It's been three seconds and three thousand stills by treadmill that is the thought of the man who now appears close your eyes and dream. Sleep is known, is the same as always.
There is a light yellow as the sun painted. There is music that is the voice of Violet singing like from afar. There are reflexes and eyes and purse reciegan eyelids. There are hungry or thirsty or wanting to know what comes next. The corners are as hollow as clocks have said Violeta cheese, and everything seems to bend, climb to the rhythm of his belly. Sleep. The illusion of a day knocking on your door and you coming out for a walk?, But I'm cooking, I can not, maybe tomorrow. And tomorrow is today and Violet is painted lips and thought that will not come. And Alexis knocks on your door, today, and she gets colony under the ears and look in the mirror in a hurry and open the door slowly and says as remembering, Alexis, I do not remember, and down three stairs and down the street without speaking, each silence means everything and so a week goes by and another and another and a laugh and not knowing how to get lips, a kiss more lips, more kisses and embraces other hand hand three words or three sighs, who cares what they say if they are together, they are well.
And the belly seems to pause for a moment and sleep, the movie seems to freeze or rewind or start thinking about whether this was or was not. Alexis feels that skin of whale swallowing his breath, press your ear a little harder to hear the rumble of a heart above the bottom. Violeta deep breath and a tsunami reaches the little boat where Alexis dreams. Zozobra. So called his love. Zozobra. He got almost the first month of shaking hands and kissing. Zozobra "of sink? No. Zozobra to float in the belly that rises and falls, which spring the life of this man. Zozobra is a name full of s's, full of sink holes where the harvests of wheat that are pouring in every minute of not knowing what the next second. I love you, Alexis said. I love you, Violet said.
Alexis's eye stretches and rolls on a volcano that pretends to be a butterfly navel and still fly non-stop flight. There is love and laziness to feel love, there is a sun that evening and a window and a desire to sleep, or the movie, is so up and down, belly and navel, dreaming and desonide. The song is still rocking, Alexis squeezes his ear and everything is like being under water, inside it, floating as she floats, feeling as she feels.
One day she asked him how you feel. Alexis walked between her breasts, tucked his head into the belly and fell until the sea covered. Anxiety, I feel anxiety of knowing that this is not infinite, knowing that this is not finite, knowing that every word is a dream, every dream is a word. So what do you want? Asked Violet, I go on, up and down in your belly, up and down, while I dream up and down, while we floated.
Violet And in the dream can not stop laughing. Laughs as he walks, he sings, as she cries, as she dreams. Can not stop laughing and laughing as he collects each of the garments of the closet, is accommodated within the bag without looking too much if their white shirts folded or if any Jersey crosses arms with a cardigan. And he thinks that just love each other. And laughs. And cries, and the case is already crowded and sit on it so that it fits the soul in this journey is not yet known whether arriving or leaving.
Nobody fires in the kitchen, and one last stay. No one has waited at home staring in silence to see if the silence of a look can convince no one in the hallway or in the hallway, all in their memories of tomorrow, crystals broken sharp drop of photographs, will be greater and cute, and you'll be. The mirror itself says a goodbye that is a fear deep down. The case will weigh and the steps we are the steps to bubbling up to the street. Makes a lovely day.
The whole neighborhood is blurring between curtains and window glare. The eyes are forever yesterday, from today for ever. The pins will stick, but she feels free for the first time, the first butterfly that flies to the forest. On the floor are still papers, letters broken, flew out the window. His cheek still echoes the last slap of a mother who does not cry. Resonate in a coin pocket, the watch will tremble and the heart seems to stop as if a breath. Violet can not stop laughing.
Walk to slopes with his suitcase, with all girl games in every corner of those streets. They are all there, its moments and its silences, its whys and each of the dashes that recorded with the old tree. was all and were all glowing ghosts, balancing on a ledge sad, joining the road, knowing they lost to a victim. Were the shards of a broken smile that was left behind as she moved toward the airport, the man distributing seeds to the pigeons in the square, and looked so much like ... but it was not him, it was deja vu.
Sometimes it was easy to classify these reproductions of it in its surroundings for flavors and colors, ripping and surface, the contour accuracy of the hands, those hands of pianist who knew her inside and out, who had been peering with the fingertips a vine lonely light that is completely unaware. It always looked like a guardian transparent and sweet that blends with an instant, gliding through the blind spot shooting from his eyes.
pinch his cheeks were left by the cold wind of Prague, walking in circles, squares, stars, triangles, knowing that all paths would lead to the same place: open arms, warm and iridescent man he always had inside his imagination, and now there was also located in a geographic coordinate, a man of bone and flesh, ideas and letters shared a lung distance.
kept walking as he laughed, he could not quit, he was laughing or die of sentimental obstruction of wanting to explode inwards contain what ever should include the lucid moment, illustrious, which justified the existence in which was explained by itself.
looked as if he had given her eyes minutes ago and still did not know use the flowers, the flowers that he used to put in her hair, now reborn from its ashes made glow color, jumped a little every two steps, as if the floor was a tile hopscotch played a thousand times by a kaleidoscope.
can I could not stop laughing, violet ink stains your fingers when trying to put an end to the misunderstandings, the tears, the moments lapidatorios, while addressing the plane that has waited all his life without know. Alexis returns from his sleep by the slide of the belly of Violet. The swing is now soft, softly, just a rhythm. Alexis looks up and watches the sleeping face Violet, then re-submerge your ear in that lake quiet to hear Violet dream.
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This dream is not a story. Not even know who has written . Which is now in my hands is the result of one or more of the accidents that often occur daily to anyone, anywhere in the world. The story goes like this:
On my last trip to Prague was, as always when I visit the city to dine at the restaurant El Golem, in the Jewish Quarter. It's a place I love it because it reflects a subtle form and essence, while decadence of old Europe. Just had four tables occupied besides mine. Only heard a slight rumor Czech and German conversations, wrapped in lyrics and music friendly Dvorák: The songs Königinhofer manuscript. I say the title because there are times when the soundtrack is the argument. To my left and diagonally, two tables away from mine, a beautiful young woman dining alone. He had short hair, dark brown seemed in the dimly lit local. Our eyes met and shunned a couple of times before the girl, not without some diffidence, to write to me:
"Excuse me, are you English? "Probably more than I would have bothered me confused with a English if I were looking at a pair of eyes like embers of stars and their voices were not that sweet voice that only the banks of the Orinoco are capable of tuning.
"Actually I should be born in Lisbon. My adoptive parents picked me up in a container and took me with them to Spain, the girl's face froze for a second with his mouth slightly open. Sometimes the truth can only be counted as if it were fiction. She visibly hesitated whether to continue the talk or dive into his bowl of bramboračka, excellent potato soup with marjoram you could smell from my desk. At the end smiled and chose to ignore the issue.
- Would you Mind if I sit at your table? He asked while pointing his finger my table. Of course I agreed as surprised as flattered and why not, with a growing hope that the good will of Rabbi Loew was sending me this gift from heaven, with some tight jeans he was going, bowl of soup in hand, to me.
Seldom have I felt so at ease with someone who just met. Without realizing the two started talking and soon seemed to know for some time. She spoke of her country, its political problems, its people, the wisdom of indigenous people, their dog and morichal, the color of the sky so different from Europe. She told me she was a witch and had four thousand years. He said he could see inside me and that's why I had spoken. I had the ability to enter the dreams of the people we wanted. He told me he was a writer and I recited a poem. He told me about Oliver Pizarnik and Girondo. He assured me that Cortázar was also witch and that she had seen more than once walking through a park. We talked over dinner and after dinner. Again glass of wine and her eyes shone with everything I had, then we ordered two glasses of Becherovka and soon ordered two more. His laughter broke out in my surprise and I laugh.
- Why not laugh you know why you do not laugh for outside? "I asked.
"Because I have fear of someone stealing me laugh," I replied.
We talked for a while for us and little by little I noticed that as our closeness grew, my legitimate intentions to carry that precious girl to my hotel were being relegated to a rare sympathy and camaraderie. He confessed that he had spoken to me because I had heard in Czech with the waiter. I said I wanted to ask a favor. I said if I was in my hand. I said thought so. I said, let me know.
took from his bag a book rings with the hard cover decorated with drawings. The leaves were blue with white lines. The first page read: "Defragment." He opened the book in half. Saw two leaves and two pieces of paper written and somewhat wrinkled. One was written in Czech, the other in Castilian. I asked if he could translate into Castilian what was written in Czech. He asked me to write it in the book and then read it. When he began to listen to what I read his eyes began to mourn very quiet, very slowly, as if her tears were the syllables of my words. Al end smiled apologetically and I read the second page, written in Castilian. When he finished I asked
- Do you realize?
"Yes, the stories continue," I answered, but why a piece is written in Castilian and the other in Czech?
"Because it is written in Castilian I wrote it. I dreamed I was dreaming your dream, Alexis sat on the table, bringing his face close to mine and whispered with that accent that seemed to dance. The Czech is in the write you tomorrow, when you sleep you'll wake me.
A shiver ran down my back. Her eyes slowly drew me to her lips and tongue felt through each of my days until naked and still breathing hard, she fell asleep stroking my head on his belly.
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