Crazy people

We are crazy, lost under the peach sun without any shadow, they run away, we wait for a miracle. Rain. Humidity. On some scorpion stone. We're a bit crazy swimming in the sand. The ploughing machines are scrap sculptures to leap into the immediate infinity that crosses our agitated heads by an undertow of sand.

Very crazy. We swim on our backs among esparto dolphins, destiny buries itself and appears in the dry fields with crazy little fingers of thistles telling you to chase him.

13 years go by a grain, a pebble. 13 years more, we are still lost among little follies that make us great in the wild plain, the clouds escape from our hands like cotton wool that doesn't want to give us turgidity.

The rain moves away again with the waves shadows.
Crazy people.