The essence of things mingles with the ground, smearing itself on the walls, on the windows of buildings, on the chaff of human existence, taking important prisoners, or just plain honest citizens, to level out the primary sensations defined by night noises.

If a sleepless night sometimes leads to immediate change, then why is it never prescribed by a doctor?

Confusion in the end is only a passing state of mind, a play of mirrors reflecting a different image, leaving behind twisted details, lovers of those unhealthy relationships that intersect in the patented, never sought-after meshes of subdued sighs on Easter Sunday.

Reflecting, concentrating, saying a loving goodbye, shaping new things, remembering the acidic saliva on skins tanned by the January heat, dislocating and finding oneself in the middle of an unknown forest, structuring and telling oneself that in the end, if we draw the sums, everything returns to its proper place, the dishes are washed, and away we go.

It would be nice to be able to say what one thinks, to magnetically attract healthy, flowing conversations in the shade of trees that stand between the deeds of two bodies affected by natural attraction, a common thread that leads one's only attention to the pages of a diary left to wither, making the words burst out and find themselves daughters of the same trees that, in one way or another, prevent a good view of the shortcomings of others.

And then we will put a mirror on the ceiling to see ourselves better, to tell ourselves that things without unknown gaps, reflect ourselves. Who knows if the dark will still be part of our balcony drinks, taught by the songs that come between our tongues.

Look up, it's sunny and the day is promising.