-Don't look at me like you don't understand anything.
The old man paused as he approached the tree and turned his body to rest on it.
Once seated on the grass of the place his arms widened wide feeling in his fingers the moss around him.
He seemed to enjoy the sensation for a few moments and his mind seemed to play with it, wrapping him in micro-memories, memories that he held onto for years.
-When did all this start to happen?
I said, as he detailed his arms and the wounds on his wrists as well as those on his forearm and immediately machine other places where there might be cuts on his skin.
-July 25, 95, I was in my room sharing a piece by an old band of which I have forgotten even its name and also lost the importance of it.
