Autumn Lights

Time is life. The dream is interrupted by news of the death of José Luis López Vázquez and bitterness, and nightmarish, gird the time. It was part of my childhood, those winter Saturday or Sunday, which together with heat from a stove, watching a black and white TV some of his films. O and, as a teenager, films such as "My dear lady?, That maid no choice but to shave every day and had a disorder of consciousness, or" national gun?, Spain reflection of our universal.

How time flies! Death can only represent the anguish of living,-the dead, dead is-, of whom, like me, for a moment sees that life is passing, that the hairs are tinged with gray, the hands that wield This pen become heavy and grooved, which to look in a mirror is insubstantial. But, alas, as a lonely breeze on a day of a hot July, the memory of that time it overflows. My dreamy evocation of the sunset beyond the confines and become present realities, living, sharp, sustained. Perhaps the flash endurance, perhaps eternal fire is made, perhaps repeatedly whipping the wood and replaced without courage ... Maybe, maybe, perhaps! ... My face, indifferent, is blurred with tears, it just by turning off the rush, the same feeling that everyone become a reality lying. The life that is consumed by fire, life turns to blade, life becomes ash.