Missing A Scorpio Guy

From Santiago to Santiago

-Whether you are welcome to the place where we say that the sky is always blue, even if it is gray, because we know the color that exists beyond the clouds. Whether you are welcome in the region of Tengri. Whether you are welcomed by me being here to receive you and honor you for your search-P. Coelho

The Bridge on the River Ebro was a meeting place for pilgrims on their way to Santiago.

A long way, between saints and demons, lost souls and faces disfigured.

Viola was the soul of a painter's palette in the middle left, a sketch from soft, white and black, like the curves of her skin and her hair, ink typewriter.

When there were no more words to say, or maybe you were told you everything, even in those long silences autumn where he felt like an image of Sarah Bernhardt on tins, half a century earlier.

His young legs walking to the music through headphones, to Santiago.

foot. Why
great answers may be found only at the end of a long journey and maybe open a new horizon Ithaca, and to get there, you know, it's another trip.

So if he was that afternoon when the street lights came on crossing the river Ebro. She rose and let her hair flowed in the wind that blew from the south, such as ruffled staves where the swallows were standing before you leave.

He came from the opposite direction, meeting was inevitable, had a heavy backpack and a hat pulled down over his eyes, a shell, hanging from a pocket, the symbol of the pilgrims, he found himself thinking Viola.

greeted her. "Where are you going?"

"Santiago. And you, where you come from? "She asked.

"From Santiago"

is curious how certain pieces of life give the impression that the pieces fit together like a puzzle. Also wanting them to avoid looking a force in their life always follows the plot its path and is not always the shortest, the easiest, the one with the best companies.

Viola knew it, and the large group of ghosts that carried by most in his shadow, which stretched the sunset time, sooner or later they would face.

remained in the valley La Rioja for a couple of days.

When he left he had the company of a conch shell that hung from the bag.

From Santiago to Santiago, a circle drawn in the sand along the way, the key to trying to find the mysteries of the Templars.

To drink the cup that they all thought forgotten. What if instead of going in the opposite direction. Perhaps only

Viola had understood, that night resting on his chest, while the moon was hiding in the clouds, or the garments of the spectra the past.