It 's a white cotton robe, fatigue . The late hours confuse you and stuns you. Thoughts pile up fast, so fast to escape, and everything is undisputed as a succession of events, too bright to be seized. Close your eyes and abandon you, weak noises are becoming more liquid. Can not you hear the silence and it's good around you, a cradle of peace. Getting ready for sleep. Chasing certain ideas that you hope will take shape, although you, like skewers that fit into small pieces to be cooked over low heat. Would you like to see colors, a lawn, a blue sky crayon, felt the cold crisp air of solitude, the beauty of freedom with no one around. Would you like to think of flying. And close your eyes, think about it, propels you up and take flight. Imagine being a falcon, carefree, whose only concern is hovering well, great, waiting for prey. Slow and soft in the vortex of fatigue, you see yourself flying. Open your arms and above your seat in silence in the dark, you're elsewhere, a pure image of the flight.
paradox, hyperbole, contradictions. 
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