A reflection that filters between connected threads, agglomerated between smooth and hard ties. It bathes my face in my moment of meditation; as if looking for me in the space of the most illuminated day to grant me blessing.

I have wanted to resolve that fire that bursts into me; that light that catches me in my confession of happy thoughts. Once I came to desire it, like the loves I professed, but now it is only the impression that suspends me in an environment of reflection.

When I was about to contemplate its colors, its style was maneuvered by the extension of thousands of threads, which together made a picture of natural waves. However, in my desire, flooded by my veneration; it was the most stubborn, vivid and petulant inn, which filled me with impatience until I encountered the flashes.

As I looked at the screen of different reflections, I tried to draw them with letters on a notebook sheet, which was stained by time due to its inappropriate storage, and I was exhorted and stunned by an unusual oscillation.

A row of wind that filtered through one side, boldly waved the smooth silk hangings of forgotten fabrics. It was like a hilarious sea of blue, for it was like the sky, but not transparent like water; and it seemed so beautiful that to capture the moment I took a photograph but its beauty was obscured.

My disillusionment was one more distraction, a stigma that wrapped me away from the arms of the muse who saw me born. And yet I contained her, I wanted to have her for myself, and in her transparent image her diaphanous light captivated me; she rested on the curtain of moving cloth.

I asked her at that moment: "What is so special about that loom? Why do you stand on the curtain, which only serves to intentionally cover the width of that screen? Immediately he answered without meditating on my questions: "It is clear that your intention lies on the face of the curtain. It is not the light that disturbs you, but the collection of threads".

His answer, as hilarious as it was simple, made me think again; with one thought and another, with the current that was filtering through a crack in the window. And it was not the light but the clothing, which covered the skylight as the clarity drew its silhouette.

It was then that in my readings I let my thoughts fall, bringing my eyes closer to the contour, wishing to merge into them and, while I slept among its bonds, I wrote the most beautiful paragraphs in unusual declamation.