Fourteen days I let the breeze move through me the rain move through me sunlight and mist both - the completeness of the womb.
We came to the top of a steep concrete hill looking for the place a tree once was, and is no longer, swallowed alive by other aspects of nature who stood proudly in the shape of their meal. We could not recognize the place from the directions, because la vuelta means “turn” but revuelta means “revolt”. We found it finally, soaking wet: a little enclave of cloud, so precious it must have been put out of reach of anybody so heedless as to spoil it.
Around you the thick trunks of violent vines: grown strong from eating, calcified by time. They form your shape, and they themselves shape what the world remembers of you. Above you, a half-oval of sunlight suggests another way you might escape.
Here, I am beyond the reach of tasks, advice, anything at all to do - my earthly needs are paid for, and the rest deferred - except to have things to say to my companions. So how is it, then, that I say nothing?
There’s something wrong with the words. The word for turn: virar. The word for throw: tirar. The word for look: mirar.
Nothing as complete as a sentence, and the attendant in the parking lot convinced of my fluency wonders why I should want to throw myself anywhere.
Forgive me. Your author - strangled in his sleep by wicked words - he might have known how to finish this how best to fill the shape of a tree again with cellulose and xylem, or tell the birds they may resume their roosting. Your sightseer: he does not. His raw language and wet hair have left a hollowed shape where a man should be.