Arms leak, needing to hold spheres, like a human Ouroboros, biting its tail where the fingers of the left hand meet the right. Dichotomy between the human skin and the overlapping scales of the snake. Androgynous in caressing, in meeting the opposite watching from above how the skull and the neck and the entire body, except for the arms, melt away, turn into the flavorous clouds the Dark Horse recreates itself from.

Shines on recklessly. And the once-human hits his seventh journey, as the metempsychosis closes upon itself, like a self-controlled wooden locker, with deep roots embedded in the Ground, like a red, flashing wound concluding inside itself, covered with thin epithelium, underneath which the volcano will sleep.

The Dark Horse climbs up and reaches its place and the man starts resting under a greater placenta, breathing through the limbs of the horse and the snake that’s now dying in the arms that once transcended into Ouroborous.

Crows fly in circles above a great whole. Wolves circle it as well and grow broken branches from the paw prints they left in the thin sand. Savage bushes and leafless trees grow on top of each other to form a fortress that holds secluded only ravens and crows and wolves.

Winds tends to scatter the birds but then brings them back together and symphonically howls through the rotten smell. Bats clap under the sun and splash in particles that would soon stop upon the skin and the candles. To blow off the candles and hold them in dream catchers.

If these were my hands and ink flooded them suddenly, if my feet were embraced by points and lines turning me into stones, would a bird come an take each pebble in its beak, then safely put it on a sea shore and cover it with sand? Well I don’t know about such metamorphosis, about such anthropomorphism of delusional creatures, both the man and the bird.

Neither can I guarantee about a huge giraffe starting to eat the tree in which a dwarf found shelter, clutching each leaf with its teeth until leaving the tree leafless, with a dwarf and his little hat sleeping vertically, dreaming of the clouds barely flying with 5 meters above his head.

The giraffe would eat the bird with the pebbles and I would kill the dwarf while climbing up to the clouds so as to escape the great flood of ink.