Daniel Castro
Soy Daniel Castro y soy; humano, hijo, hermano, vividor, artista, escritor, dibujador, fotógrafo novato, apreciador, dador de placer, melancolico, melomaniaco, ninfomano, liztomano, filofobico, agnóstico, misántropo, aragnofobico, queilofogico. Entre otras cosas.

MIDDAY 12:16 P.M. Jeans weather. Long sleeves for the AC. Bike to newsstand, the yogurt place, the good dry cleaner. Try to find appropriate birthday card for J. Unsuccessful. Return to see neighbor has draped his fire escape in Tibetan prayer flags—for the World Cup? Fourth of July? Both?


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That sweet midnight summer heat has started to wrap around your body tighter than my arms. With all the windows open you watch the curtains dance and you feel the significance of each breeze as it wanders over the landscape of your body. Your hip bones poke through your skin like they’ve got stories to tell and your palms start to sweat. When were gone we won’t remember any of these details. Just the fights and just the laughs. When were gone we won’t remember exactly how our skin stuck together in the summer or how we never had enough blankets in the winter. You’ll make a bed one day that I won’t lay in. You’ll look to the passenger seat of your car only to look further out the window. You’ll cook dinner in smaller portions and do laundry with less quarters in your pockets. You have a heart so rich in beauty and a head so thick with sadness. As the stress piles to your ceilings you watch cobwebs collect in the corners of your mind. Listening to a ceiling fan click and watching it sway you have panic attacks that come like the flu. You’re young. These are the pains of youth rested at the side of it’s beauty. These are the cons to your pros. The milk to your coffee. The honey to your tea. The ginger in my whiskey. The weak to your tired. You’re still young.

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