To the south of your breasts, to the north of your knees, to the east of your arms and over the horizon of your noises, give yourself the wide sea of this infinite journey and, like me, close your eyes so that only the touch sees, deciphering each nuance in the burning photography that we are revealing in the fingertips, in the increasing rhythm of the beats, in the certainty, inevitable, that the light is an internal conviction,
personal, non-transferable, which shakes the breath from the inside, like a fire, in the long, almost eternal moments in which, like a whiplash deployed from the temples to the heels, the ship arrives at the port and the storms come together in this simultaneous groan of moods and caresses.
Tired, delivered, integrated, the corners sleep on each other, while slowly, the fingers are returned on the explored roads, as if trying to find the route of the return to the rough earth in which they will simply be fingers again, and the lips lips and only hair the hair and breath barely a breath. Although the only promise of the known territory, the hope alone of a new journey, returns them to their daily field with the force of a new possible journey, the one in which, given to the geography of the bodies, they will return, to see the fingers and to hear the lips and to wave the hair and to touch the breath, when the north dresses of nipple, the valleys are moistened and the night is illuminated in textures only deciprable by the slow recognition of your forms.
