The eyes were gone, but the Look remained; and together, that foolishness bewildered to its self-image:
_ Say what I was, that I no longer answer for no one ...
Wise is the man who live all his time in the present; therefore, with feet in the pit, dreams are only memories, and any expectation, any object, is closed at the tomb.
There is nothing left to wait, nothing happens, and the only fact is what's gone, past ...
Future? It was the time.
The only present is the peering eye watching bones and truths. That ones, however cruel might seem in life, forgot by the man's foolish escape, now sparkles dazed, crisscrossed with memories.
It is no longer possible to escape with closed eyes, and the surplus observer, is an exaggerated, perplexed, paralyzed consciousness beyond its remains.
But Look!
Who cares about the truth of the facts sees the death as an ally; for it is from his darkness, which reveals from the skeleton, the consciousness that was hidden, masked by the image of what seem to be. Unleashed then, pushed out by the astounding cadaverous image, nothing remains beyond the truth itself.
Who spent the life hiding itself in lies, then contemplate its cache, far from any eye, the penetrating to the depths of the soul, its own Look.
