Well it's 3: 01 am and return with this story, the first of February, is the more melancholy I've written in a long time, I hope like it.
A pain is equal to yours
transparent glass, even through the dim light, is that even enough to prepare a drink brandy again, by its square shape is the only stable on the table, and that removed error dictionary of the legs, the only book that has the owner of the floor - and there is no balance in the table, peanuts, a English card and cigarette butts are the beat mesen of gravity moves the table ... you can hear the unmistakable and alcohol de Vicente Fernandez "could die in the bars and never stop loving them" mixed with the sound of a stray dog whimpering from hunger and love.
on the table, there is a weary head, from some angles seem a surreal scene, a severed head that moves while a table in the absence of a dictionary, but with the head is a sleeping body and defeated by alcohol and grief. At his side, his left arm covered with hair which clocks again and again revolves on its axis, while a belly expands and contracts with the breath each time more agitated.
The chair is old and creaks by the time the whole site, and on it rests the body of a man worn by the frustrations of its very existence, somehow managed to lay his head on the table, in his other hand firmly holds his penis and semen soaking your toes dry, his heart is at a stale sweat ...
The clock strikes 2:47 on a Wednesday lost in the huge calendar year without news.
can not see through the windows, but if we could enter the site would be like entering another world, posters and portraits flooded the walls, typewriters, umbrellas, CDs, ed ; mics, trophies, clothing, appliances useless and newspapers held captive all available space, but it is impossible to see from the outside, the windows are cleaned and years without a thick layer of dust and grease the drapes, curtains are not the best of aid, the environment is full of dense sandalwood smoke, while you Saúl Hernández torn continues singing through old speakers that distort the perception of sound, making it sound as if his voice came from another stranger dimension where the senses are dislocated, where fears evaporate. "
On the desk is a bag full wire and explosives, is only waiting for the timer to be completed, time seems to stand still for a clock connected to the copper wire from a light bulb will no longer more light next to the desktop is a rumpled bed with sheets made ball to one side of the bed a small pine desk drawers filled her with cigarettes and alcohol, a battered lava lamp lighting gives the place a small, orange and warm at the same time, there books are the best selection of the inhabitant of this site, Borges, Benedetti, Cortazar and Garcia Marquez, and hidden beneath them with a tissue is a small red leather notebook full of notes of a feverish mind, on the floor is an old gun with no bullets long. A fourth
even smaller, at the bottom left if we consider the explosive device or right if we decide that most important are the books, no bath in this place known for its cleanliness and happy spring grounds, on the toilet a young man sitting, his pants covered only by resting on the toilet, no lighted bulb despite the prevailing darkness, the little light so far provided is by the lamp of java, in his eternal up and down the heat and an even smaller, firefly which follows the same route, always stopping every few moments and then made even more brilliant only to return to its usual size, it smells like marijuana smoke out of the bathroom slowly permeates the house while a girl looking lost and extinguished the fire long hair between his lips.
The clock strikes 2:47 on a Wednesday lost in the huge calendar year without news.
She is twenty years old and a boring life that many would see as boring. Lounged on his bed, is married and rested for a life without bustle drawn in charcoal his diary in an effort to not do something stupid. The girl never stops moving his hand, his body is slender and looks toward the light and music, his left foot moves to the rhythm of the saxophone, the bedroom is dark in the rooms continued reigns silent, both are responsible for keeping at bay a laptop that plays over and over Jazzman by Carole King to a volume too low to disturb the sleep of someone else "It's the late ninght in the side of hmong Darkness of His Soul "whispers to no one in particular, as a mechanical act, not even realize that your lips move. The only thing are wearing their little cotton panties Mafalda reasons, her small but firm breasts inadvertently rubbing the soft fabric of French blue linen, that has excited her erect nipples that require attention, but to the concentration of its owner, his message does not arrive, and complies with influence in the work, seeing how they form the silhouette of a naked young woman also.
She pays no attention to the screen, you see instead looks up and sees the young singer immortalized in the photo, accompanied by a large cat, that action makes her feel less alone more than once thought about buying a cat like that.
The window of his room is closed, she hates it, I used to sit on it to play the violin for anyone who would listen, but a few months ago that came to steal it and still not enough to meet a new, longer opens, however, there is nothing to see, just buildings full of windows closed also not let you see not a single star.
The clock strikes 2:47 on a Wednesday lost in the huge calendar year without news.
The clock much more than 2:47 on a Wednesday lost in the huge calendar year without news. Marks another day lost in the lives of three lost hearts who do not know of the existence of the rest, including the fact of living in the same building, with many old lockable doors, with windows open not long ago, with many each loaded people of their miseries and their pasts, with so much, that ends up being nothing, each living in the same immense, devouring city, in the same gray building with no future, in the same vacuum eyes of three people you are no known leaks at the 2:47 am, on a Wednesday lost in the huge calendar year without news.
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