Luck is on his side today, next to the fire where he learned to listen to his instincts, to bet it all. Today he is the lucky charm of the writers mood; a miracle drug that hopes to be kissed. You will be withering for not accepting the chances that blossomed disrespectfully and free. Such freedom insisted on its predicament and faded not to be confined. He glanced at the half written page while the cloud smiles from the window and illuminates the writer, his sun -his virgin- shines brighter to caress the grapevine's leaves.
God loves the fire and we get the comfort in the wind, with the sand in our eyes. A sunset is private, but where does the zenit-point take us? Staring into the white core and the clear becomes green, underneath the gray clouds that walk by to say hello; to smile again. He celebrates, his character is growing from his own personal desire. No chains seclude him in the dark, no bars impede his tors from absorbing the winds. His hair shivers and the scalp laughs arrogantly: free. The writer hands are so small in comparison to the head expanding, the fire claps and the logs burn with decrepit looks.
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