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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2011-01-20 | [Este texto, tienes que leerlo en english] |
The house is holding its breath. Mouth-shutting water all around,
splashed from between his lips. He is stone-still in that armchair, never taking his eyes off her. They don’t remember exactly, it could have been like that from the very beginning. A water-tight heart, one might fear. But he knows better: love suffers through itself the violence of destroying its limited satisfaction, once confessed. Or everything hardly bearable they could be doing right now is a boundary of loving and losing immediately touch with. She is surrendering from a corner to another. She is unhappy, unknowing this could be the highest moment of their life, still waiting for a voice inside her mind to start talking. The liquid is rippling quietly its compartmentese up to the ceiling but they can’t drink it because they think they are living in a void. compartmentese: a language characteristic of using compartments instead of words
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