Crónicas de una licántropa a sueldo.

El tiempo es un maestro de ceremonias que siempre acaba poniéndonos en el lugar que nos compete, vamos avanzando, parando y retrocediendo según sus órdenes, nuestro error es imaginar que podemos buscarle las vueltas.

I remember our highs in hues, Like the color of his eyes  As the sun was setting; The pale if his hands in mine And the blue of his smile. I remember our sorrows in shades,  Like the gray of the shadows,  Which loomed that day,  And the white in his lie When he promised to stay. 

You were like a dream, I wish I hadn't  Slept through.  Within I fell deeper,  Than your heart would  Care to let you.  I thought you were a keeper,  I wish I could  Have kept you.

I turn away And close my heart  To the promise of love  That is luring.  For the past has taught  To not be caught,  In what is not Worth pursuing  To never do  The things I've done That once had led To my undoing.

Shrinking in a corner, Pressed into the wall; Do they know I'm present,  Am I here at all? Is there a written rule book, That tells you how to be- All the right things to talk about - - That everyone has but me? Slowly I am withering - - A flower deprived of sun ; Longing to belong to-- Somewhere or someone.

No había tenido tiempo de formarse opiniones claras y definitivas sobre la necesidad y el significado de las lágrimas del ser humano, esos humores líquidos que persisten en manifestarse en el extraño caldo del sentimiento, razón y crueldad de que el mismo ser humano está hecho.