It is here that the wings of the condor, fragile wonders of minimum balance, continue to specify the bonds between the ground and water.

Between the ground and water, two silhouettes, a red truck which connects an anthropophagous twilight, with the injury of spade hidden in my ego.

A landscape, an end of azure, joinings, a rigid limit like the nozzle of the condor, a major and smooth acute end of nothing, forgotten somewhere between ground and water, where my tiredness extends.