Today I have thought very much about you, and have decided to move back there, far from everything … far from you.
It is a place of loneliness and death, where the ravens sob driven to despair, since up to them they have discovered the foolishness of the punishment for going in opposition to eternal one; of that everything has it and knows it.
Of that it loves so much his children, that it leaves them to suffer, according to him, to remove them from the evilness. Vain lies and absolute sadness.
And there, in this ravine of Dark and cowardly hearts, I have left fingerprint of what I touch. Of every cent. Of every tear spilt by the freedom of the man. For the dear woman.
I have arranged the only thing that this to my side always, to take pleasure to the poet most connected in his dreams of luck. That one that alone will be destroyed completely to my death: my body and his wild attributes:
To my parents, the hard work that they inculcated me and the facility to show the real color of the world to my brother, so that he chooses to my age his way of happiness and mourning.
To my friends; the facility to speak what they taught me. Of the values that I acquired with his wisdom. With his strength my mistakes to demonstrate myself. Of his support in my more terrible moments.
To that as me, they believe that this has to be more than a stupid revelation than shit, and every day they fight, in spite of the fact that they know that on having ended the day, a part will die of them.
To my perfect muse, the virtue of knowing that until the end, it had someone who thought every second about her, and for which they say that I am a dislocated philosopher.
And to the woman that I love at this moment, the satisfaction of finding out that there was no man who loved her more than I, and that on having gone away remains alone forever, wrapped in my terrible curse of twilights of blood and fire.
Because the money goes; it goes and comes. But the real love and the nature humanizes only they exist once in his original form. Later they were changing and they will disappear forever.
I, fragile dream of meditation, heretic of my more noble reasons and hangman of my concerts of desire, write this testament in order that God is read by the purest of the saints ….