...i Am The Immense Shadow Of My

In Spain, The Dead Are More Alive Than The Dead Of Any Other Country In The World.

With Their Souls Of Patent Leather, They Come Down The Road. Hunched And Nocturnal, Where They Breathe They Impose, Silence Of Dark Rubber, And Fear Of Fine Sand.

Everyone Understands The Pain That Accompanies Death, But Genuine Pain Doesn't Live In The Spirit, Nor In The Air, Nor In Our Lives, Nor On These Terraces Of Billowing Smoke. The Genuine Pain That Keeps Everything Awake Is A Tiny, Infinite Burn On The Innocent Eyes Of Other Systems.

The Moon Carries The Masks Of Meningitis Into Bedrooms, Fills The Wombs Of Pregnant Women With Cold Water And, As Soon As I'm Not Careful, Throws Handfuls Of Grass On My Shoulders.

My God, I Have Come With The Seeds Of Questions. I Planted Them, And They Never Flowered.