EVPs of LoveMy voice, now filled with skeletons and ghosts, breaths with the asthma of an old sadness. / Sadness, cursed and profound, and in even deeper hideout that despite the evident, I just preserve the sensation but not the face, maybe the same last, red, and painful of Hemingway’s. / The same feeling is the one that prevents me from turning off the lights of this room and give a new kiss, honest and juvenile, or the boldness of accidentally pouring some sauce over a friendly skin and sip from it, or to look into a pair of new alien eyes, that just seconds ago threw their dice to Destiny.
