I wake up and sleep under my epidermis, on the crust of the earth, with embedded layers of dead cities

I move skins and surfaces among others skins and surfaces when I cross this street, or when I lean against the railing of this window that leaves the night

I wake up and sleep between impalpable membranes, with enzymes, autoregulations and imponderable combustions

I metabolize faces and theories in the middle of confusion of unmeaning memories, between greasy secretions, tubes, alveoli and accumulated stories

sometimes I feel this whirling inside my belly, and I do not know if it’s hunger or memories of hunger, or if they are spontaneous movements of the voracity of the emptiness

nor I know what type of limit represents the skin, if it separates me from the dawn or it joins me to it

if the cold I’m feeling in this glass belongs to me or that’s me belonging to the cold or to the glass, or if the point where everything is interlaced only appears to vanish

I only know that I’m open to this morning falling down its reds for buildings and mounts, walls and trees