They are also the COLLES. All wisdom teeth depart two worlds. Living is traced colles, one after another, until the last one, the most sublime, death. The line of peaks are crops in a lowest point far climbing the grass and the trail. Overcome a collada is a painful and routine duel. Step remain distant and our effort seems impossible and fruitless. It is better to forget the goal, focus solely on the road.
Footprints sense the end, guess its proximity numb by the soft cervuno fluffy when the wind whistling over our heads. And suddenly, magically, without transition, the splendid panorama of the most there, stubbornly subtracted to our vision, gives himself to us in full, hand over fist. It is also, inevitably, sweetly, the fog. The peaks would not be what they are without the fog; its grandeur, its beauty would not have the magic that has the seven veils of mist without this capability masking, invest it, undressing, glimpse, immerse yourself, that they give to their summits. You can only appreciate the real extent of referred beauty who has lost his sight.
Why spikes occur in a perfect synthesis consisting of physical vision and the imagined. This hide and seek game makes sense, is not a mockery or of a gesture of contempt. Instead, Los Picos, mountain, reward always to which WADA, always occurs that the search with humility. Early or late, when we deserve it, the fog is magically opened and summits are delivered to our ruborizadas and dense, quietly enjoying the last Sun life. Sometimes you have to win the clarity dating fog. It is a fantastic transit from the deep darkness of the low Hollows, through the damp and sticky presentiment of infinitesimal droplets, until air begins to purify diluted, to dissolve a suddenly and in clarities increasingly bright, color!, the embrace of the Sun! And the window of Heaven which runs immensely and by which it penetrated.