“I don't think I ever wanted to be the man who loves children.
But from the moment they're born that baby comes out and you act proud and excited and hand out cigars but you don't feel anything.
Especially if you had a difficult childhood.
You want to love them, but you don't.
And the fact that you're faking that feeling makes you wonder if your own father had the same problem.
Then one day they get older and you see them do something and you feel that feeling that you were pretending to have.
And it feels like your heart is going to explode.
That was faster than I expected.”
- Don Draper
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Las cuerdas, las tensiones
Violines, sus vibraciones, la viola
Con las que se hacen canciones
La gravedad, el golpe de un hola
Se revienta el hermestismo
Se enloquece el magnetismo
Causa aquella repulsión anticipada
Como siempre, queda en nada
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Sistemáticamente me enfrasco en mi acto fúnebre
Predeciblemente, silente y célebre
Me quebré
Disputa interna de añorar quedarse dormido
Le tengo miedo al estar despierto
Le tengo miedo al sueño eterno
Deja de normalizar el ballestrinque en la garganta
Idealizar la caducidad protagonizada, no se canta
La enemistad conmigo es vocacional
La consanguinidad contigo, opcional
Tu diástole y tu sístole son consonantes
Mi inhalación y exhalación, disonantes
Deja de normalizar el ballestrinque en la garganta
Idealizar la caducidad protagonizada, no se canta
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Con prisa apachurra el desánimo de estar,
invade el arrojo de absurdos patrones
y desgasta el ciclo interminable de pensar
¿Dónde se quiebran las desproporciones?
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