Grey is my favourite colour.
It is captured in the eyes of the hunter and in the blade of his knife.
Gray is soft as a cloud before the storm, somber in its centre and glowing around the edges.
Life is grey because black and white don’t know how to talk to each other. They miss the details and all the beauties trapped in them: Sin by excess of perfection.
Love has many shades of grey and is pleasure as well as pain lost in the flow of cotton sheets in a summer aurora, while the air is still fresh from the night.
Gray lives the shell and next to the flesh of a virgin it gives her the purity her mind doesn’t have and will never reach even as an old woman.
Grey smell fresh but sometime has the odd metal taste of blood.
I see the hunter, the sky, innocence, love as well as my life in your eyes Wilde One and I always travel beyond their light to reach the lead captured in a very special mirror: It’s edges are soft while intact, but it is breaking as time passes, the thousands of pieces crackling, turning their pointy edges toward my face.
Gray erases all.

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