sanama

A fog-covered Wednesday like a poor creature worrying about being in the middle of something. As if Sunday would end as if Monday would begin processes. And what if Domingo begins and never ends anything. What if one would wake up every October only to finish what was taken up in April. 

Could hibernation spark a fire. Like a poem which blooms on a seemingly unproductive day. A poem that clones itself to have a twin performing all the work pretentious poem. And the real poem that spends its days observing the light coming down through the branches leaves forming islands to dance on.

But for real why does one have to consider duplicating themselves in order to survive the day to have something to live on to enjoy slow conversations about nothing really to chop wood to eat pasta drink wine to go for a bike ride and feel the wind on one’s palms to walk two hours back home after a night out to wake up without caring whether it’s Sunday or Wednesday.