My name is James, I'd been living for all my life in my neighborhood where my friends were the most wonderful youngs of the World.
A crazy night, my father broken that magician youth. He thought that his life shouldn't be lived by me and my other brothers. I would be their freedom if I obtained some success, if not, other of my brothers should take the same eternal way. Finally, the desert wasn't my tomb, although some nights, I tried to return with my balls and my books and also my dance.
How I enjoyed it! When I was reading I had discovered the rhythm of the writer, perhaps, when he hardly described the water which fell without love, without waiting our protection, when my weak spoon, any bread, flows without my mouth which dreamt the sweet food of my mother. The slow rhythm was nice to take control when my friend didn't like to give us the ball, because, I stopped, forgeting my body, who slept, dreaming on the grass, but step by step, my fingers, my calves, my pelvis take blades of the floor, and throwing its to the wind, my head began a imperceptible shiver  that, later, had taken my feet to describe the round outlines of the space was full of that girl who I was looking for hours, her hairs, her hips, her infinite legs which hadn't problems to draw incredible forets and internal castle where the peasants protected the parfums of their lovers.

Why had he ripped off the ground where his old friend fought against giants and misunderstood farmworker who didn.t take of every different plant?

Now, he spread his arms over the injured spirits of those who lost their ancestors