Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

The Balancing Pole I get tired of searching for a scene where my number flows of confusing stomach growls with cranes in mid-flight of lukewarm drinks and beer without foam tomatoes without flavor and another full moon that brings no sighs nor the memory of a cuddle. I get bored of not agreeing of bending my head to interrogate meridians. Meanwhile, my palm looks for the balancing pole, the breath.