ying on the sofa, he stares at the ceiling. The lights are off and there isn't much he can actually see in there, just the white blurry form of a round paper lamp and some shadows cast from things outside the living room. He thinks about standing up and turning the light on, perhaps reading a little, but the vacuum in his chest doesn't let him move. He breathes once, and again, and the void extends to his stomach.

The ceiling has stopped moving, the lamp glows gloomily, barely enough to make it's contour visible, and outside there is no wind. Everything stays still, waiting...

He turns to his right, reaches for his lighter on the table and, after opening his stomach with his left hand, introduces it slowly, carefully in his body. Once inside, he lights it up. The fire catches up and grows steadily inside him. After a while, the flame is big enough to reach his chest. The fire-tongue warms patiently, moving slowly, kissing his heart until it starts melting.

A magma-like liquid fills the void there used to be in his body, in his being. And he is alive.



bubamara said...

creo que no oía-veía la palabra magma desde la primaria jijijijjijiij