These are some of my hours, sometimes when I unintentionally bend my head a little, hours filled with doubts, glass bells smudged with smoke inside that come off from behind and as always from the pendulum wire of me, and splinter against the ground of history that I am not or have not been, the anecdote that I do not live, the time that I almost always look at from afar. But another life sustains me, another yellow, freshly polished bell that rings just at three o'clock. A consolidated and wise sound that is also part of my fate. I have a degree in doubts and uncertainties, but there is in me this golden bell that refuses to lose, to stop ringing. There is this attempt that poetizes life as a paper in the wind, a rebellion even in resignation and the failure to boast of a leper forever. Yes Yes. Sometimes I am a pure defeat that boasts for being those sunflower seeds thrown onto the asphalt and cement of this melancholic and closed city. Life and sorrow, but a lucky and pilgrim sorrow. Alive: yes I live. Combined with thought and poetry, solid words like granite that even if I die they will continue to say in spite of me; despite my. Nonetheles.