Was there any time, may or may not exist, a child who spoke with his color bands sock. It was a strange child in a normal family with father, mother, two younger brothers and grandmother. But he spoke only through his sock.
If I wanted strawberry jam was the sock which asked it for the breakfast. If he didn’t want spinach for dinner was the sock that was refusing to eat.
And one winter morning, the boy’s mother went to wake him and discovered that the sock had swallowed his son whole and slept deeply, perhaps because of the heavy digestion.
Then the mother, terrified, locked the door and, with tears in his eyes, turned the key and nobody ever went back inside.

I’m cutting the grass under my feet and then I stab the pebbles while walking in the garden of my mind.

 A little illustration for a brochure about food handling, made for Madrid’s City Council.