Sometimes sagging ink drips cling to the soul.
They disarm her and take her to the limit of what is unknown, making her miss steps towards destiny.
Like an embrace they divinely tangle to the heart, giving it the beats of eternal enchantment.
They fit together between one instant and another of life, making it damn and melodically longer.
They have the power to stain every pure thing benevolently, like the cry of a child stains the mother’s breast.
These drippings are sublime, they reach the skin from other horizons and they know how to choke the throat and then bring a new breath, a new whole.