Por Eleuterio Santiago Díaz. Suspended in the darkness, resting on a sideral cobweb as if in the pendulum of nonbeing, I can feel the angel in my third vertebra. Wings in the wing, like a renewed millenary promise, his breath, like a refreshing waterspout. His hover, candid like a first breath of life in ambrosia, like a fresh drink of coconut milk with extracts of the hallowed, smooths my untamed, hazardous blood.

Por Eleuterio Santiago-Díaz. The well is the mirror of the night. Its obscurity is profound and comforting. It has the soul of an entity enormously old. It dwells in an agrestic setting in a hidden section of the forest, beneath the hoariest trees. It springs up gently from a crack in the rock at its bottom and never abates.

Por Eleuterio Santiago Díaz The plague torches me. It has taken my lips, my lungs, my ganglia. I will not be born. I am not going to live to speak your precious name. But when the night falls, Mother pulls an ace out of her sleeve. ‘The talisman, where did I put it?’ There is nothing extraordinary in her sight except for an explosion of whimsical fire-flowers.