Strange as it may seem, those three women are far more mysterious and hermetic than the puzzling and semi-illusory city where they live. Nobody knows, by the way, if one day they were about to drown in a sea made with butterfly tears, or who knows if in those mystical secret life’s babblings that take shelter in the flowers of winter. The only thing that’s known about them, or at least all I can add about the limited knowledge you have about them, my dear and highly revered friend, is that they profoundly, intensely and vigorously love the outstanding exquisite idea of fondling. Indeed! How wouldn’t those three women cherish the idea of stroking more than anything else in this world, if they believe them to be like a truly unique dance which is performed around a most passionate furnace? They also love and are outright fascinated by the idea of dance, which portrays life itself in their eyes, being able to speak with a tongue which can raze the forbidden fruits from heaven and which could well get to the point of talking with a fiery hallucinated tongue capable of piercing life’s very own glance.

You know what? After thoroughly thinking about it, I’ve decided to help you putting up with the grime coming off from epileptic nostalgic cogs of this story. I’ll assist you with the incongruously crackling flames spawning the interstices of everything you and your two friends went through in that strange mysterious city you’ll never forget. I’ll lend you a hand, starting right now, in supporting the weight of a roving song of luxury and the perfume of each and every one of the reverberations of delusion and the echo of the various voices of a perpetually unconsummated oblivion. At the moment, however, my way of aiding is limited to telling you to be strong. No, don’t give any space to any kind of nostalgia or destructive sadness. You ought not to let your soul be smouldered by its own fire. Keep tears from a star or a coldly deferred moon from leaving you with nothing to live for.

It is quite certain, on the other hand, that in the upcoming lines you’ll present the story in your own way (in fact, that’s something I could swear to), so before that, I’ll step in and submit my perspective as the tale of a relentless flux of temptations, as the chronicle of your soul and that of your friends, an unconventional city and five beautiful unique women slightly impregnated of evanescence.


© Miguel Ángel Guerrero Ramos