1
Me running over the yellow grass until I get tired. Ana, Ana, small white pea entombed in the center of a wall of orange bricks painted of white, not bright. Ana! Ana! Open your mouth, break the transparent skin that wraps your body and scream. Ana! This is me, the sun does not move nor do its five rays, the sun is a drawing on a white piece of paper, perpendicular to your wall. The grass is real, that I can tell, yellow soft grass, about to rot. Ana! Ana! Open yourself and Ana! let the brick in which you are inlaid crack wider, let the crumbs fall down, wait for me Ana, wait with your eye wide open, that here I come, running, tired, I know that there is a real sunset behind the white paper of the yellow sun delineated with yellow ink, Ana, because in the box where you live and where I am running, there has never been a morning. You are a seed.

2
Ana
rolled over the surface of the wall but did not fall down. Ana was green inside. My tongue was dry and pasty, ana-green, and my hands felt hot and swollen, delicately being eaten by fungi.
Ana conducted herself to the ground and moved slowly, her body tightly attached to her wall. She came, bouncing, and saw me. Oh, and the grass was still green, like she was.

3
I
have watched Ana. Systematically. She usually lits a match for three seconds or four inside her niche in the center of the wall. I can only see the dot of light through the white curtain she has hung to cover the crack in the brick she inhabits, the crack through which she entered the wall. She didn’t posses anything, Ana moved with no belongings. Where did she find the tissue that hangs covering the hole in the wall? Ana, I have spied on you from the ground, where I am, far from you, through a telescope. Maybe it was an old, almost transparent leaf that you managed to carry up. But who am I trying to fool, I haven’t stopped observing you, I know you didn’t take anything with you, I know you could not have found it inside the brick, I know it is your white pea skin, I know it because the curtain is an empty bubble suspended from a spiky salience of the clay where you want to entomb yourself, where you are lighting a, a match? Inside the brick, your round soft body, raw, and your skin covering the entrance to your room.
Into the brick, Ana naked. Where did she get the matches from?

4
Ana, I
want to bounce with you. I want to be on you, over you, bouncing up and down with you, feeling you bounce under me, you looking at me with your eye and me healing.
Ana.
The paper horizon glares. It is a fake brightness, it is a liter of vegetable oil boiling, burning; looking at it tires me as would eating a bunch of leaves fried in rancid oil with no salt. The salt, the heat –the leaves getting warmer– would kill me. The horizon gleams and I can’t move. I can only follow Ana into her room with my mind. I can see her inside.
Inside Ana’s brick, she opens her chest, still green, and chants. Ha. There is enough space for Ana and for me in her brick. Her skin is elastic and clean, I want to try to fit in it. Fresh vegetable skin. When Ana chants, it is a different heat; it burns at another degree, measurable on a scale different from that of the painted sun. It is a heat that can burn, can hurt. But then, when a new sort of pain appears, it is possible to forget the previous one. When Ana chants, the wound of the burning from the fake paper sun is still there, but is not the focus anymore. Ana’s song becomes the primordial fire, and it also burns the skin, but as if water.

5
Ana is removing
the curtain from the entrance to her room and goes outside. She rolls over the wall but does not fall. How is that possible? She is solid; she should fall because of the same principle that makes her bounce. But she doesn’t.
Ana, I have been watching you through my telescope. A thread of hair, of somebody’s hair, coiled like a snail shell, is the tube through which I look at you moving into and out of your wall. You are not a prisoner, you come down to the earth and pick pieces of wood from underneath the roots of the grass and take it up to your brick. You bounce Ana, your eye open, and with my mind I follow you and with my telescope I make you the center of my images, and yet I haven’t reached you, Ana.
You are going back to your wall. It is starting to rain.

6
I haven’t wanted to take my mind to Ana’s room again. My hands feel duller, I scratch the fungi on them, I could bleed. I could.
The grass is wet, is getting rotten, it smells like old algae pushed away to the shore, dark green the algae, sickly yellow the grass. This horizontal rain is washing away the rays of the sun. The rays are not straight lines anymore: they are bent arms. Oh Ana, I have the feeling that the paper horizon is going to rip soon and we will see the real morning behind it. I don’t have a brick to seal myself in. The water inflates my body, I become fatter and the fungus on my body strengthens.
The light in Ana’s brick shimmers two seconds before her seven hours of rest. After that, I don’t know what she is doing anymore. She has not been out. It is raining still, and she hasn’t hung the curtain.

7
There remains the mystery of Ana’s ability to bounce and yet move as if flying very close to her wall. How can she move along a wall, a vertical surface, and not fall, being round as she is, being solid, having weight?
The paper sun is gone now, I see only a yellow stain in front of me and on my right the white brick wall. I don’t see Ana.
To run.
Me running over the yellow grass, the leaves growing taller and sharper, they are like arrows cutting my skin and blurring my sight. The drops fall as if sprayed. Ana, I’m coming.

8
To leave the leaves dry hanging from the back of your chairs. You sit by my side and fix your eye on the dry pieces of wood that make your room and your house. There is barely enough space inside the brick. You live in a cave, Ana, and the surfaces that surround you are prickly and hurt me. You have taken the pieces of leaf that attached themselves to my body as I ran, and you have put them to dry. They are nutritious, you say. Maybe I pulled myself along the wall, or maybe you are able to fly and took me here, cracking wider the crevice in your brick-and-house so I could get in.
I look at you, you and your skin. I am here with you and you don’t look at me, and there is no space for you to bounce or for me to make use of my telescope. I want to hear you chant, you say that you don’t chant anymore. But you did chant. You are round and with your eye you recognize my fungus, my reddish body, and light a fire with two pieces of wood.
You don’t chant anymore.
I will not ask you where you got the matches that light this fire.
You used to chant, you say.