It exists, how not to name it, so whispering, those interior stars that crowd and explode in the blood and rebel at vulgar death, and against tedium and the condemnation of every day without honey, or with postponed honey and promised to go to know when. There is that God, and I say it without fear or tremor, without a modesty and without law, who moved away from the temples to give the body his mercy and justice ... But where is he now? ... What Justice! They exist, and that is the safest thing I have, these minuscule words, also condemned, that they would like to be for a while, more than a drive of life a meeting with you, with the kiss of who awaits me -If you are still Waiting for-, with the body of my beloved. There is this damned God that longs my skin from so much await something from heaven that is there, outside of these walls: alluded between platonic letters and unabhable desires, the size and perfume of an invisible magnolia that now dehusts its white flowers on the ground of weather. It exists, yes, how not to express it, this penalty to walk with the soul lit without being able to touch, with this hand that writes, perhaps your cheek, your hands, your chest ... and I burn, burn me for you. This is my stone cell. This is my appearing that I endure everything, that for being an innocent period, and perhaps an artist of loneliness, I must postpone this desire that it devastates, this need. I have, love, a single channel for now. These are these insurrect lines that pretend to break the shackles and say I need you, I love you close. And I also speak from the tenderness that is always present. But how to get there, how to open a step in this time away and obligatory imprisonment and hugs that are not. I am alone, and it is almost not understood. How can it be, how is love as much, how can I love you without knowing who you are, where are you. And there are things that I do not know how to express well, even when I always express myself easily. I am a simple man behind this cell that kills, from this letter that seems to be that all that irrepressible desire, that skin that is in me, a heart that beats despite everything. It is logical that there is between these lines a vibration, a wanting to be, share, live. And live. But how do you see, there he is hanging around the dog. That worm that once perhaps she wanted to be aviator, that owl of death that of boy looked at the birds and swallows because his will was the freedom and the power of him a song on his lips. And there it is, walking through the corridors between the cells, vigilant of dull lives, as dark as his. That jailer and watcher dog, whom I owe thanks for making me the favor of receiving these letters that maybe he will burn. That despicable who lives prisoner like me, but condemned by destiny and not for the good or bad justice of men. I wonder if you are there. Do you exist? I'm crazy? Once I saw you at the station; Another were you who saw me in court. I still think that you did not abandon me, you did not believe you believe. Something tells me that the cards go to the fire. That dog is responsible for reading these lines, that he laughs at me and us, and he takes them into the heat of a black fireplace. I do not receive visits from anyone. Only your ghost ever moves ethereal through the yard, and I look at you and you are between sad and widowed. However, I have a hope. If this last letter, if this last attempt of letter could be tied to the leg of one of the so many pigeons that are often posed in that square of heaven ...; Maybe if someone found a pigeon marked with the message of this desperate card, I would not mind to continue eating rice with sausages for an eternity.