hear while waiting for the bus, in the Plaza San Miguel. Just drop a few drops, but the soil is wet, the brick facades as well, and displayed red, perfect, intense, as if waiting to be covered, the rain, and music.
I'd like to save a picture from that time. But how do reflect the musty smell, mixed with the fleur de lis, recovered an old perfume? Are not enough eyes, or memory, they fall short. I'm always going to miss the tingling of happiness, through my body, the feeling of being nothing ambiguous, and be part of everything.
Sometimes life is so beautiful, that digital cameras have become completely useless objects. Pots.
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