Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Consciousness And if I were to expand to the point of bursting into thousands of pieces, if my suffering should reach that level do not sanction my heart do not let it escape into the void like an insignificant hot gas

The Meaning of Nothing There was a certain sadness to it all, grey moss and violence remained --a sorrow music could not disclose where it came from-- it just kept floating by me, aging pure and perfect, the sound pounding its inescapable presence, a vow of eternal ownership. It was a warning, like the kind discovered when sentences start with "it must have been." As with the things that must have been, there is never an offering of a revelation, a meaning.