Waking up at the hour of old routines: short moments of silence where things die.
The night has gone away and with it, the dreams of which I have no conscience at all. They remain in oblivion, just like little by little everything vanishes; like the faces are vanishing, and the places and the memories. 
Mental photographs are not enough. They are not enough for me, because they can’t keep the scents, or the touch or the sound of your voice.
From those days I only have left some books, a couple of letters and words between notebooks. Losen and insufficient pixels.
I wake up thinking about scars but when I see my skin I can’t find any. I carry wouds that trespass what’s visible and tangible, wounds within, living deep inside. Their home is the confusing labyrinth of the mind. Weird ways and cross paths that take me without going anywhere; without even moving myself from this ground where my body lays as I am writing these words.
To close my eyes and then open them to realize that another night has passed and with it another day will pass too. It will go away as those days that are no longer here anymore; because with every sunrise it also comes the hour where things die.