I think I've dripped through the eyes of seven children that talk in my sleep, and I actualy enjoy it. These colors that run through my body have no reason for being, but they are, and their hands hold the pieces of paper that turn into the cones of my eyes. It feels strange, as if the walls all around me hemmoraged themselves out of sight, or as if space where the dream of a cat and a mind that chase each other through jewels made of clous and mouths. I'm not sure if I'm making myself clear, but it's hard to explain how the basketbals dribble inside my body all day long, and then my hands turn into sand, and I really can´t even begin to explain it. Perhaps I feel this way because the tree I was during my childhood has faded into a tunel of subjectivity, that goes under the sea, and under the skin around my eyeballs.
