Harris Float Boat Partstop Cover

America can not be understood apart from its mystical and magical side

La Negra not stand to have fingernails longer than a few millimeters. Every day before the fire, devotes half an hour of his time to file them with a piece of sandpaper and clean the sand mixed with silica that accumulates in the spaces left by the thin skin.

La Negra has seven children, five and two its not his. Each knows the story, the emotions and the shape of the scars that life has left him.

The sky is clear, it can be seen even through the glass dirty stuck in the mud wall that protects his room. It's cold, but there is still light and duende, mischievous imps, are still far away.

La Negra spends most of the day in bed, with his back against the wall and his hands busy to decorate cards and rectangles of fabric. His mind runs away as fast as her fingers ply thread and needle while his mother's heart is suffering, full of magic, the children away.

Sometimes a few words, bursts of speech, the reach, Penelope eternal, dragging it into reality. Then he gets up, approaches the fire, warming a mate herbal farming and realizes that it's already dark outside. It prepares for its meaning to ward off evil duende approaching the house. Alely, black dog, will help in this task, as faithful every night.

La Negra does not believe in magic, but it can cure evil with a jute thread. Baudelaire Rimbaud does not know either but it keeps the heat. Bears six silver rings at the hands of a somewhat 'opaque as the color of his eyes while bronze skin seems carved from the smoke that sucks almost constantly.

So back in bed, and she senses rounder as far as he insinuates in the difficult communication with the duende out there. No one knows if he sleeps, dreams or waking.

Negra Oh, oh American heart!

Angel of the nails long and dirty hands. The rest of the body looks clean although it is covered by a large and majestic blue poncho-Argentine. Appears out of nowhere, the dark blue spot in the garden where green-brown houses mo. Drag and drop a big bag full of hay, dinner for his fiery horse that lives in the same courtyard.

Angel has a gray beard and unkempt, a receptacle of some kind of spices, which around lips swollen and purple. The same approach that the horse's ear and began to whisper that perhaps words. Serrano, this is the name of 'animal , neighing and responds in a genuine dialogue hallucinatory. When the attention of the horse is captured entirely by the food, the Angel come to us.

It comes with a bow and an equally elegant movement brings out the endless folds of poncho a tambourine without bells. With the same elegance also appears a dark glass bottle and plain, from which two quaff burning gulps. A magic potion, he said, "Para el sentimiento enfocar" . At this point, accompanied with a pace and raw power, begins to sing his story.

Lost love, lost her son, found the horse and wagon and painted wooden covers. He then began the journey to his homeland, Argentina eternal, nine years in the moors, people, wine, ghosts, stories, elves, mountains, shepherds, tears and legends. The wide brim of his hat Coya vibrates in unison with his voice hoarse, shouted and unstable.

And so we know the tia Selva, the dog is so fat that is impregnated psychologically. The buxom women and maternal Mendoza. The spirits that protect the bay of Ushuaia. The saga of the large family Lorca, 18 children endowed with the most bizarre. And with its ability to singer, magician and illusionist we find ourselves protagonists of his poetry, and we look stunned and naked in his speech.