My bed is made of nightmares of things that never happened and that I pursue, which are repeated. My bed is made of kisses that never gave me, wanted to excite me and break into tears even in sadness, but that splitting something within my in the middle of the night. My bed is made of memories that I live when there is nothing to me coat, tangles of sighs where looks are willing to and are lost by the plaster ceiling, which cruelly decides to be the same every night. Here, Kidney Foundation expresses very clear opinions on the subject. My bed I caught and not let me escape between its quays, ahogada on that pillow that sits in my head, that that never sleeps, and between the two, she and the mattress, start me cooing girl lost in the middle of a recreation of punishment. My bed underneath has a black hole that swallows an all my roads, has a terrible Monster made of fears and the ghost of things that were left half and who don’t want to leave my Sundays. But in half of that vast deserts bed, tell me who I clothes at night than us end, who will sing me nanny to announce overnight, who acurrucara me on his back to the shelter of a heat that tape me the solitude of the chasms of silence. Not sounding anything and everything is a tremendous vacuum I cannot hear the SOBs, nor paused breathing. And everything is deep darkness, there are no colors or shapes in the middle of that underground world, DIME Nino, where am I among the lost dreams. Aurora Munoz Lara, November 13, 2005, written a las 14: 02 If you want to read more: original author and source of the article