The things that have really seen this eyes inexistent

It is a huge and unstructured night. But it apostrophizes with our heart. It's mid afternoon, good weather, dad lifts the sleeves of his shirt. A dog barks outside, elms rumble, the laundry faucet drips. My brother's blows are heard, he's working in the garden's workshop. Mom is downstairs, attending the business or rather waiting for the first afternoon client. The house smells like work, cold food. A certain smell of earth, of tomatoes, of potatoes on the straw, of absence. Lying on the sink, resting from the day, from work, from illness, from life, which in recent years has been considered to be a farce, my father contemplates a cloud. Smiles under his red mustache. I miss you.

Writing is personal art, meditation, small meditation, daily. In writing we play the world, we embrace it.