Love Words are boats and they get lost that way, from mouth to mouth, like from mist to mist. They carry their merchandise through conversations without finding a port, the night that weighs them down like an anchor. They must get used to aging and patiently living on wood used by the waves, slowly decomposing, damaging themselves, until the sea reaches the routine warehouse and sinks them. Because life enters words like the sea in a boat, covers the names of things with time and brings to the root of an adjective the sky of a date, the balcony of a house, the light of a city reflected in a River. For this reason, mist after mist, when love invades words, hits their walls, marks on them the signs of a personal history and leaves sensations of cold and heat in the past of vocabularies, nights that are night, seas that they are the sea, solitary walks with extended sentences and stopped trains and songs. If love, like everything else, is a matter of words, approaching your body was creating a language