A dead 1969 dream for Juan Carlos Rousselot

Those cosmoses were un-approachable: the distance, I mean, it was as blue as it was televised, for Juan Carlos Rousselot.

Because the piribitiflautic washing machine of space swirled every night, as his arm got stretched under the moonlight mileage.

I degusted a yoghurt while admired the Carlsagan-esque extension, and I laughed out loud, and I died, and I was born again, and I was machista, and feminista, and I was no-thing, and I watched again through the screen and saw Rousselot disappearing at the matinal powder of angel, and the dawn back pedaled and turned into noche over my head, and I cried all that night long, and your rear window saw this, and you credited it to me as righteousness.