Winter of Three thousand one hundred and something.
l wish you could hear my story, but here, life does not come by. lt has been a long time since the last human being left. l am alone in this town.
Outside of this window, some trees have fallen. Coincidence is not part of the woods, they follow a cycle, like we do.
On the other side of the same window, old wooden furniture and houses across the street are full of termites and wildness.
In summer, the green color is oppressive, trees green everything, everywhere. But, if it wasn´t because of cycles, it would be hard to keep up with time and seasons.
Though, l do not go out, I like to see through this big glass eye. Once in a while, I see a cat into the woods. The cat wanders about its feline arch, something between hunger and some little mice scrolling around. And I believe, with my eyes I believe as if I could slide down on the back of the cat.
Time ago, in my head, someone ask me about skyscrapers, the missing cities. I gave more than an answer. «I believe», I said, «there is one in front of your house. Don´t you see the one with a red little light on top? Can you see the clouds and shadows on the glass? I do. If you try carefully you might find yourself climbing up, or following a line of vehicles and people. Life returns to itself, stepping into another you. That is the universe of light.»
I know it sounds like from a novel, or a science fiction theory, but it is not so.
We better close the blinds and say good bye to the cat. Oh, the cat has gone! and l have finished with words.
l hope some day, you, or anyone finds this letter and believe there was human life once on earth.
B.O.M. imagen de la red