Who owns a letter: the sender or the recipient? Perhaps the mail on its way at least. Who is the owner of the wound, which cause, or who is affected? Are not the two sides of same coin? Or maybe the owner is the feeling that they nailed his dart. Who loves, who is loved and love: the archer that wounds to both the drawbridge found and missed ...
The owner of the wound is the executioner and the victim is the idol and his idol, but, above all, what links them faces or whatever his name. Because there love do not know his real name.
When you arrive, if you have to go-go quietly. Use your own key. Say good afternoon, say goodnight, and go. As one who has gone on an errand, and returns, and sees the house as it was, and approves it, and sits in the chair more comfortable with a slow sigh. Open
when you arrive, if you want the window to accomplices outside sounds, and light, to the favorable weather of life. The time had you not cease to exist when you arrive. Everything will be simple. As a freshly cut rose, the miracle will be installed between us. There will be nothing that does not fit in my hands when you arrive. Iridescent clouds crowned the roof of the bedroom. Where are my wounds?, Tell me ...
But listen to me: here to stay when you arrive.
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