I live here.
The world is flat and straight, and there are no flies. Seasons change, and sometimes bring the miracle of snow. The sun comes up behind the mountains, in the quiet heights of the Andes, under cobalt skies, on the edge of the atmosphere. Cicadas die angry, shouting their life away under the paralyzing heat. Mangos fall from trees in an empty world - we sleep at noon.
These are black territories of muscular sexuality, where everything seems to fuck everyting else, and clouds turn pink at sunset. Where the breeze of the infinite ocean races down the brown, dry-naked hills. Humid plateaus where indian silence clashes against a dark wall of granite (almost a shadow), the greenest green, the thinnest sky, immaculate and cold. These are, finally, pale blue eyes under a gray sky, receiving the full blow of the freezing wind, drunk, on the dunes, in front of melancholy seas.
There's water everywhere, cold or warm, still or not. Lines twist and turn in curves and angles sharp or soft, between plants and trees and skies and clouds. And there are flowers! Animals shout, here and there, under the sun, dying, being born, angry. There's always wind and dust, and people running from the rain, even when it's hot. But sometimes, I just can't see the mountains.
And I wonder if I'm alive.