I looked at him through a veil of tears…
Sometimes, words leave behind them red and painful marks, which resemble shiny snail trails.
And just as slow as a snail’s sliding, words get lost in the enclosed, dark air.
Their traces remain however; bright, silvery, forming winding networks, with a lake of tears at every intersection.
Lakes with toads, snakes and poisonous plants.
No matter how hot a wind blowing over them might be, they don’t evaporate.
And no matter how clean the pouring rain falling on the snail trails might be, they shine just as much as before it; and blind the eye.
