The press room of the castle to the knight. His armor suffocated to leave. Open the door and re-enter the same room.
Go to the bent over old rocks. It's old, it is wise of the earth. The crosses with his sword.
She insists on rocking. Brings a claim from another world, an abandonment, predation. He stirred the bowels, we kilter all, he took children.
was him, but does not remember. Or remember that he or she was needed.
She weaves and sways. In the warp appear simple and timeless stories, legacies of ancestors.
The old addition and multiply the threads to avoid taking the wrong color, not to distort history. The other story about wealth, treasures torn from scratch, his old naive, hopeless resignation.
The gentleman passes the door again. Re-enter. She is weak but retains it, do not let go.
armor, it oxidizes, their movements become slower. Not understand, is terrified. It drives you over and over again.
She tangled with another thread, combs, sewing stitch by stitch. He resigned abdicates. The weaver tenderly strokes her fingers, the closer to the Maya, weaving. Transform your veins and your skin by shuttle and includes them in the warp.
The canvas and the knight are confused and they embrace. Close the story could have been different. Sign
as tree years old in the swing swings empty.
See more stories
0 comments:
Post a Comment