dream it, even .... I know, you should forget it, I've tried but try not guarantee success. Not go into exile, which, incidentally, is coming to an end.
Michel de Montaigne said that nothing fixed something so intensely in memory as the wish to forget. And who is not, but hey, I can attest that he was right.
And I'm dreaming, but does not want, but dream is to walk into nothingness, to the infinite does not exist, although it is a long way toward a distant horizon with his bare feet on a carpet of nails.
And here I am sitting with my computer, surrounded Budweiser small worlds that are broken to pieces around me ...
remember that I dreamed of a beach, with tropical fruit for breakfast, with love under the stars, his warm skin on my chest and my notebook of poems a sofa ...
I dreamed of Venice and a stroll through the canals in a gondola, to grab her waist from behind while watching the sunset from the windows of the hotel and back of his hand Trent Park, Guinness, or listening to a concert in Temple Bar. .
dreamed with her sweet velvet lips, his hand on my cheek or the trembling of his skin to bare his body
the first time I dreamed of her dimples in my left bed, endless Saturday morning awakening, Quique in the kitchen and Doowap muffins .... I dreamed
Nerea, and upon waking, do not even know if I preferred to keep dreaming, keep sleeping, or they never dreamed ....
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