estoy contento a verte otra vez
its an interesting pseudo-reality. nothing is real here. maybe it was something in the carribean breeze intoxicating you with every breath, stealing inhibitions in an exhale, leaving you lost floating face down in a sandy, chilean twilight dream. it all seems like it might have started with that colorful liquid infidelity that hits you hard and carries you so high, you lose all concept of the pain of consequence until the guilt sets in and swallows you whole with the tide, but it can't and it won't because it swallowed any last traces of your conscience within. and you haven't a clue where it all begun. all you feel when you wake up the next morning are the traces fo drunkenness you left on the ground somewhere the night before, and you're back at it again, freshly intoxicated for the day with the new carribean gusts that sweep through your whole being blowing out the remnants of a morning after tequila headache and all the memories you don't want to keep when its over. impulsiveness blooms like a flower and grows like a weed comsuming the roots of your normal character while the sun bleaches out fragments of reality that you forget you must eventually return to; or maybe it has something to do with the sand and the salt, and a gluttony that you can't grasp, much less realize in the heat of the moment. when you finally return to the reality that you previoulsy knew, you awake in a blink and it all becomes nothing but a blurry haze swept away in sleep, barely even alive in memory. it is but a weak heart of its own creation pumping just enough to stay alive in a photograph, the sole evidence remaining to convince you it wasn't just a dream.
its a numb tequila erotica that dulls the senses as your lips twist a euphorian smile.