Man of his word. Munso I.

I will call his comet.

It was his nickname when we only met. And he was very gone. Why was he called that way, I have no idea. But I can imagine a hundred reasons: because comets are elusive. Because heat comes from them. Because they leave behind a long bright mark. Because they seem very light, they easily go their way, like it, with the eh of laptosomal addition, with a long and slender body when you look from afar. Because, like other celestial bodies, he constantly rotated in orbit, although there was a slight suspicion, the tiny probability that he could leave her

a sonnet, composed not according to the canon.

intimate, as a recognition,

honest, as a confession.

tall, as an ode,

And earthly, like a joke.

This novel declines into pieces,

slipping from any definitions

and genre definitions.

After all, after all Cometes, breaking up into parts, shed

star rains.

and someone, here and now,

unimportant dark night, they are waiting for.

And they always spill