Turmoil

Pretty sure the never-ending cracking, splits and chips on my phone’s black screen is the adequate metaphor of the unrepairable twists and turns of what ought to be called the heart’s clueless way.

 

In a way, this might be the text that makes my grown future kids (if we ever get to that) realize that his father is as much tridimensional as pretty much every other human being; humanizing and bonding youth, bur eager on its blind swings of luck, uncertainty and F A I L U R E.

 

Ha!, then again, so pretentious.

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