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back then, i'd reached the age of twenty and i was crazy. i'd lost a country but won a dream. as long as i had that dream nothing else mattered. not working, not praying not studying in morning light alongside the romantic dogs. and the dream lived in the void of my spirit a wooded bedroom, cloaked in half-light, deep in the lungs of the tropics. and sometime i'd retreat inside myself and visit the dream: a statue eternalized in liquid thoughts, a white worm writhing in love. a runaway love. a dream within another dream. and the nightmare telling me: you will grow up. you'll leave behind the images of pain and of the labyrinth and you'll forget. but back then, growing up would have been a crime. i'm here, i said, with the romantic dogs and here i'm going to stay.
