Manifesto

Never before sheets have felt that warm and a castle made of cotton have been built without even attempting it. I could swim all night in those two square meters without spilling a drop out of the bed, play with your fingers with the challenge of not waking you up in my game, rolling mines in your hair and swim it like Michael Phelps, find the end and the start of a body with the only clue that the belly is the centre.

With the light popping trough the window been the last call of a train we are not wiling to take, my eyes feel forced to be closed for first time and I write a manifesto forbidding the awakening: The anarchy under the sheets, and you say there is no anarchy without law and I would like to explain you that is not about politics or society but negating the time by containing our breath, is about tickles and goosebumps, the right of turning the alarm off and forget what is right as we learn everything about us using only our fingertips, leaving to the future selves the responsibility of our actions.

When the morning states that is to late for such manifesto, I realise there is no place, no time, no dimension in which we fight to see who is the first to get goosebumps and I conform myself delaying the time by whispering my reasons to it with the hope that are not to be listen for anyone else, nor you, not ever, so that would be end, and night would be end, and you won't be there.