Balagan reached Zeta preceded by the sparkling sound of a bell in a bowler hat. The noise woke the neighbors circus mired in half-empty dream. Among bleary eyes, the only statue of the place became a writer with hat, pants and pirate gold dancer steps. The pen wrote a story told to me and tell me here.
writer was once a dream that he dreamed a flight of red flames, candles, silk between trails wandering gypsy of a semicircular world. The wheel gave way to the chemical balance of the prism and its edges turning and rotation. Harmony in the translation so hypnotized space rider. Turning is always a good start. And when all was money and nothing else, a thousand rings of blue and silver soared into the sky of juggling.
An orange flower died along the refuge. The fakir found the instructions and gave him back to life. Because sometimes, when it seems that life is upside down, simply turn around and shake until the penalties are white dots. But the penalties always come back with the rain, then no choice but to wear them and embrace a life, this coat by dust.
The world forgot about our problems and turn again with drums and electric purple. In the rotation There were no suns or moons, only one man as the center of the night torn by a bluff. Light discovered cosmic travelers able to bend time and live in two worlds separated by the gap of a million tricks. The West Road was to tack dreams spiraling bubbles and dance and dance and dance to the light that illuminates the words. That was when the muses decided to hang from the ceiling down in a waltz and actually laugh pan, attempted the impossible task of getting a fried egg Olympics.
Stars returned to the land of white elephants, a place where the man survived on the strength of your muscles orange and lotus flower. Baroque rhythm trumpeted a birder migration seasons and the calendar that determines the fate of the birds of fire, winged creatures that live only to ascend to the heavens and plummet.
Love challenged the law of gravity with two hearts suspended in the air, ethereal contortionists free hugs.
races inhabiting the Balagan announced their victory while the rest of the mortals, after casting their applause, they returned to the fog. Lost and scattered in the mist walking in search of a light, where a circus tent to feel like dreams flooded much reality.
writer was once a dream that he dreamed a flight of red flames, candles, silk between trails wandering gypsy of a semicircular world. The wheel gave way to the chemical balance of the prism and its edges turning and rotation. Harmony in the translation so hypnotized space rider. Turning is always a good start. And when all was money and nothing else, a thousand rings of blue and silver soared into the sky of juggling.
An orange flower died along the refuge. The fakir found the instructions and gave him back to life. Because sometimes, when it seems that life is upside down, simply turn around and shake until the penalties are white dots. But the penalties always come back with the rain, then no choice but to wear them and embrace a life, this coat by dust.
The world forgot about our problems and turn again with drums and electric purple. In the rotation There were no suns or moons, only one man as the center of the night torn by a bluff. Light discovered cosmic travelers able to bend time and live in two worlds separated by the gap of a million tricks. The West Road was to tack dreams spiraling bubbles and dance and dance and dance to the light that illuminates the words. That was when the muses decided to hang from the ceiling down in a waltz and actually laugh pan, attempted the impossible task of getting a fried egg Olympics.
Stars returned to the land of white elephants, a place where the man survived on the strength of your muscles orange and lotus flower. Baroque rhythm trumpeted a birder migration seasons and the calendar that determines the fate of the birds of fire, winged creatures that live only to ascend to the heavens and plummet.
Love challenged the law of gravity with two hearts suspended in the air, ethereal contortionists free hugs.
races inhabiting the Balagan announced their victory while the rest of the mortals, after casting their applause, they returned to the fog. Lost and scattered in the mist walking in search of a light, where a circus tent to feel like dreams flooded much reality.
Photo: El Periódico de Aragón
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