17 mayo, 2009
In the blog where I was born lived a girl who stared at trees. She walked the fields seeking for a flawless bunch of leaves, she went exploring for ages in the quest of an inmaculate branch to feel. Having lost hope she started to write at the back in the light of stars. Her ink was green, her words revealed the many flowers in her twisted head. With the brain came induction followed by deduction, for the girl to find it was all an illusion. Then, in peace, she decided to begin the delightful process of becoming this mind piece. She wanted to stay nowhere, where the soil was as pink as her soul, a place with the smell of fresh sliced green apples and sparkling dust. Perhaps she was himself an it. Or maybe a flower or a tree, a leaf, a branch, or a seed, because we all live in a rolling tangerine, rolling tangerine, rolling tangerine.