Thieves Cry at Sunrise

I don't dwell about the poor. Thieves cry at sunrise, so they don't make my list, and politicians, the rich or a killer don’t evolve.

I write about the characters’ surroundings, the pieces that make them and dwell in their joy. However, I have found no joy that is not associated to the persuasion of a woman. If the drive starts there, the whole route is justified.

A woman told me one day she was in prison and that they didn't allow her to touch her granddaughter, because they don’t want any kind of sexual arousal.

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There is only one truth, and it is found between when one opens one’s eyes and the first word one expresses right after.

Even Nature contradicts its truth-- creates its own fiction or/and lies to itself--, when it gives birth and kills itself. There is no coherence at the extreme, read as life and death. So, nothing have to be coherent.  

Who is more rebellious to his or her nature: a well-suit man or a woman begging for money?

Because, and as I read somewhere, someday: if it exists, it is perfect, I don’t look for flaws in characters.

Yet, those characters, that I didn't write nor I have invited them to anything, are still finding their way to reach me. GROSS.