' When to feel itself sad, remembers that in the world it has somebody that only lives because you existe' '. The passer-by passed for the absorbed midnight desert-like street in bad thoughts, transtornado for the disillusions of its life, taken for a indescritvel feeling of desperation, desventura and fear. The life presented it in way extremely dries, insossa to it depressive? depressively cruel. The people who more delimited with its eyes langues and shady nothing were of what inanimate dolls that, to the touch of one to awake, would be ready to devorar to it encarniadamente, as if, for magic, if had become animal dangerous in sedenta search for its blood. She trod its way the indefinite steps. Wise person to the certainty if would not have to run, shortening in the distance to be covered until its mansarda city dweller? to the terror of the misantropia – or same if she would have to calm its feet, widening the time? in reason of the direful discomfort that generated it the needy aspect of its house and the feeling of insipidez of the inexorable routine.
To live, for it, changedded itself, to each day, in one dangerous it flirts with the death. In data moment, when crossing with a strait and dark perpendicular corridor to the amargurada street, a stranger heard voice, a calm voice however petitioner, a voice that admonished to it: – I Come, I am the oracle. Impelled for a magnetic energy that absorbed all its distrusts, the passer-by burst running adentro, without nothing to enxergar, nothing to think, only left itself to feel (or, qui, to be felt). Of surprise, a hand grasped its. She was very small? it noticed – however with an uncommon force. The voice then said to it: – You do not have fear. Insurance my hand and closes the eyes.