Leaning on his chest, the woman reads her story is a tree that holds among its branches a tiny shelter-hut with a window into the golden sea at sunset. The space contains a chest that conceals a secret map without treasure, but with a maze that is lost by a woman reading aloud and flies over the gray sky of a July 3 Santiago. There, on a nameless street, accidentally lands on a man with a hat and scarf burgundy. The wife comes home with his enthusiasm for the sun to give her laughter and while walking through the streets in the dark with the sound of his footsteps on the pavement, he whispered in my ear that can be written a few letters. (She hears him hanging from his sleeve and give thought to those words for many tomorrows. Then he bites the mouth and neck and kisses him slowly, slowly the lips in a corner booth of the hill). They discover that eyes mirror it reflects the desire to live with her and open their wings to descend together to a beach where they perch on the rocks, sheltered from the wind and the anesthetics that conquered time and desire. There, away from predators, he recovers his composure and still counting: the story of a man tree that housed a woman shelter with his strong arm and leg on his chest hides a treasure chest with no maps, no mazes, and shattered dreams, but with tens returning kisses the only window to the sea of \u200b\u200bgolden eyes. And verses and words. Cone woman rocks the cello voice. Both are clothed with the whispers of the waves tireless and certain future.
It's time to toast with a glass of Merlot, no noise, for one year vanished. Nothing.
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