Do without thoughts, write without words

I remember that when I was a little kid one day I runt so much I arrived untill the end of the cornfields. The end of the cornfields for me was the end of the everywhere, like the limits of the world, but more little, suitable for a kid's limits of the world. - It's by this maybe, I'm thinkig now, I considered the school for the first years something that belong to an other universe, and the childrens there, kind of aliens like me coming from other planets- . My father anyway, that day was planting a long line of weeping willows and cedar trees along the perimeter dividing home from the near fields and he wasn't looking at me very much. - It was Sunday I remember - . I remember at the end of the cornfields I begun feeling many little things on my legs walking in troops in tickling bites that became minute by minute more intense. I remember it was Sunday and my father was far far far away because I runt untill the end of the cornfields - I remember - and I begun shaking my arms and my legs and my father from far far far away replyed with an hello - shaking one of his arms too - and I remember that Sunday I discovered what was the sensation of going untill the limits of the known world and beeing under the attack of fire-red-troops-of-swarming-ants-walking-on-my-skin. It was Sunday I remember. And I begun, from the moment it ended, losing this as other memories, and now sometimes they come back. And I like the taste of it now, and the feeling of those ants, and the Sunday and his sundayness and that I runt fast as fast as I could through the cornfields and the ants in thousands walking along in lines as the weeping willow and cedar trees my father was planting far far far away. It was Sunday I remember. Maybe, but it's not important. It's really not important now