Where Do Handicap Rails Go

Once a year - 2 year

many questions, many things left unsaid. Today

checked one thing: after eight hours of sleep in natural conditions of humidity and temperature alcohol sentimental the body is well rested and enabled to change position (standing). If one (1, myself) prefer to postpone the moment of boredom or to kill time before something important, and gets back to sleep, the next time I will try not to (get up). Because the body. My idea is that after eight hours the body starts to release some moods are as toxic as all that may come from outside the body. Because the muscles are faint, and one can feel almost levitating, the body far from where you are feeling. I do not say because I've levitated once, but because I guess it must be similar to insomnia in reverse.
This happened to me today, a year later.
I do not want to cheat. During this period between November I was tempted, things happened and I was mentally noting, assuming they had the weight or whatever it takes to be part of the annual chapter. I held back, I did not shout, but that he thought and predisposed me to remember. But I can not remember. I remember some things, yes, facts and situations, but I have no idea what criteria the imagined in this text.
I have to be honest, that's all I have.
now my mind and my emotional apparatus are taken, affected by the momentous game (as the journalists) Nuls, the classic of tomorrow. While I was asleep and woke up dreaming of inventions and variations of images of the match tomorrow. Some happy: Formica recovers a ball in three quarters, leaving two defenders sinaliento on the road, and enters the area defined under to the departure of goalkeeper; golazo. Other tragic: Schiavi fails at the first pitch of the game, Zelaya is slipping, Schiavi fouls from behind, criminal and eviction.
But that misses a day. And today I have a whole year.

did not expect this day to come so naturally. I do not feel prepared. What if I write a chapter a year and one day just touches me irritable, tired, reluctantly, to apathy narrative, of selflessness?
No problem.
Because this is not a chronicle, it need not be: I have nothing to go back in time from the last piece to this part. But I am surprised, yes, as long as everything happened so recently and spent so much in between. I am surprised that a further surprise. If we all do the same, always, before any investigation of the passage of time, would be decided at once to confirm that, yes, indeed, this is how time passes. This is what lasts a year, exactly, neither little nor too much. A year ago was "recently", but it was "a lot" since then. Point. The time is right. In fairness, more than justice.
This year I was sleeping, like today. With pleasure, enjoyment exotic, erotic, infinite medium. I always liked to sleep, but this time I discovered something I can live with greater intensity. With less guilt, I apologize if psychologism. Just trying to stick to the truth. To some.
A caveat: I mean when I say sleep well (perhaps especially) to the surrounding areas. In durmevela, a little step before waking, one after sleeping. One day I was more or less than twelve hours getting up and going to bed, to capture a very precise sense that all the time appeared but disappeared soon. It was raining like today. And in that journey, in this gathering would come and go too loose words, unexplained images.
In these scans, the same day, invented, or I found the Time Machine. Yesterday I was trying a story that includes this invention, but the truth is that I got nothing, so I present here, to all of you.

In the dialogue with the inventor (I do not know if it was me or the other), the inventor explained that the time machine finally invented, you can travel to any point in your life, if that time has already occurred . The future does not exist, he explains. Nor is it possible to choose the time: one "gets" on the machine and falls when you have chance where chance decides. With one important exception: it crosses a single situation, and must match one that is entered by a door and out the other. That is the journey that makes the machine once it develops in a space, entering through one door and out the other, the same way you did this movement. So the machine it is permitted to re-live one of those moments. There, in the dream, I was invited to take a trip in the machine. I do not remember actually having lived in that space-situation, but I was in the dream itself remembered. So the machine works.
I entered a kind of passage became a great old house. Climbed a ladder and entered a room with a giant library. In that room there were two semi naked girls lying on lounge chairs. The girls recognized me, of course, because that had happened. After a while of talking I explained to them that came from the future. I do not remember whether or not they believed me, but I did a lot of questions. At a time when the talk ended and I left the room, walked down a hallway balcony, down stairs and out the other door.
then went back to talk with the inventor. I asked (I was now clearly the person, not him) what he considered the most common questions and problems about of a time machine, what happens if I do something in the past that can change the future we are now?
"It is impossible. You're the same person who was in that situation, and if we're really there with the same motivations and concerns, fears, desires, etc. So why would not do something different from what you have done. In fact, the most subversive you could get to do is tell the rest of the people you come in the future you, but if you look closely, you will see that you did in the original moment. " Perfect. One last question: What shape is the machine?.
"is shaped like a pill."
The other day my sister told me, quite rightly, that a place to come almost every time with this machine would be the collective, which is entered through a door and out the other. We think that this works for everyone except the old ladies, who come and go for it. But then, what an old woman might want to travel in time and return to a time when it is old. This problem is to avoid running down the front door, still being closer to the middle.

However, beyond the machine, one factor that led me to this well-sleeping organic. Last year, more or less at the height of the chapter, I had another invention to doze: the nonconforming critical. That would be (I decided when I awoke) my way of approaching life, some prompted by the lack of silver decision to make a trip to the world told me I was in need. Much less move.
What happened to Critical Conformismo was very special to walk soon after saying it amounted to allies, especially one: my friend Agustin. We gave him way, it returned true and functional. Very fast was removed from the depths of my dreams (dream) and was established as a dream among friends, a Latin American dream: a commitment to happiness only focused on the possible. Four
or five years before (?) I lived in a small apartment in a huge building in Almagro. At the edge of the giant patio (it was the same as the rest of the department) which was the garage roof of the tower and the cemetery makeshift bats in the area, Augustine and I got together to think and write. We called ourselves "collected immediately." At that time we wrote a short non-fiction texts we called the "occur-how" and we sent by mail chain, like a blog but before. An afternoon of those, as we ate a snack, we said a little joke, but very very seriously, we could write an advice book. A new form of self-help. Wanted to. Also in summer, but at the end of last year or the beginning of this, my friend told me that Romero would direct a new collection in the editorial Kier. And I was thinking "titles."
During the first half of the year we met to Augustine every Tuesday night (rate!) To eat, drink and write our book.
That was how the critic Conformismo earned himself advanced in the world of reality to become your own review, and we exceeded our membership. It is now part of a book which is bought and sold and sometimes read.
What else, the fascination with the passage of time. As if there was another thing. It is a kind of story itself: the story that only makes sense from the conclusion: how time flies, how crazy. But yes, I can not remove: I spy the last chapter of surprise and joy at the thought that "at that time not even thinking about the self-help book," for example.
The fascination with the passage of time and its segmentation into books.
I think not, for example, had seen the series House, which is something that I think have done ages ago. Now I am in doubt, I will seek a parameter. (This is the game that nobody can resist.)

perfect: in the event of "Closing Cycle" last year, after November 22, someone had a shirt of House and another person gave him talk so, and I remember feeling that I did not understand at all what they were talking. That night also passed
stuff like that stretch and take you to unusual places, like a little hotel right in front of the lagoon Chascomús.
How long does a night?
I must admit that I'm facing a strange modesty.
Last year, after publishing the chapter (you can see it in a comment), some acquaintances told me something about modesty, or lack of modesty, or excessive display. I gave place to think, but the truth is I had not played anything like that. Now I feel something. I'm not saying any names, I could not tell them. In fact, a person had a name on the previous page and not anymore.
How long a name? What undertakes a name?
But if this is literature, fiction ...

train from confessions made several digressions that there is one that actually appears in the free association and direct evocation, but I'm leaving me by others that are more sensible to me text: summer .
"All I remember is the summer?
Last summer I read "The novel light" of Levrero. Great experience. Terrible, too. Played a race against tremendous hinchapelotas Uruguayan daily: two in summer, hot as hell, both thinking of buying an air conditioner. In real time I won, but I think I won it by date. I know it's difficult for you not read that book to understand what I'm talking about. Hopefully serve as a stimulus.
But summer, what summer makes me weird.
Perhaps, if this novel written in June's annual think the same winter. I encourage you to suspect that I am much more stupid than what I feel to be.
In fact, I bought the air conditioning is cold, heat, and was even in the winter that one day he fell. Yes, I dropped the air conditioner. Responsible for installing it (my downstairs neighbor, the man who arranged things with the charisma), he said, very naturally, which had been the effect of vibration. We agree that if the air conditioners are falling by (his) vibration, we are talking about dozens of deaths per day for this cause. Would be more dangerous than the coconuts in the tropics. The truth is that if you lead me to write this thing, so news, the statistical, ie, which only can happen to me, this story of the air conditioning would be vital. But I'm not interested in the slightest. I'm not interested so much that I have missed (just me) and I can write. This is not a chronicle. It is rather a place or an artifact. Whatever.
do not know what I'm doing. Among the shame that I got, that will not let me write some things that come naturally with references to people who are not me, and now the kids of the apartment next door to play football in the hallway and my door is arc ...: I is complicating the matter.
So much trouble for this? A year down the drain!
would have to invent something. I mean, somehow.
I know I'm going to leave. I will eat, then I probably have a few beers in Old Belgrano. And when you return to finish this morning, but seriously. I promise the third of a bottle of wine left over yesterday.

Now it is day: I'm listening to an incredible album, The Roots of Chicha, another great monster of a gringo with Latin American music, in this case, psychedelic cumbias from Peru. But writing as well as asshole look like a rock journalist.
I have to admit I discovered this album because it was recommended in Inrockuptibles, one page after the little thing they put on Ceviche. Quite matching the thing. When I was a kid I read that magazine, not now, but this year was Ceviche, and what not ... and this year I felt something like that: any or all of a sudden I had and could say what he could think about what I write : and yes. Sure, if by that we are.
I mean, I get bad, sometimes, when they say that it is Paraguay's Eleven, instead of Peruvians Abasto, as bad as when an editor tells me that my novel will seem "less radical" and happens even suggested suggestions, but ... but it makes me feel good in general, something like I'm doing something, a little radical but very powerfully salable mine and still legible. So?

last summer also Romero told me to do a workshop together. Say something Workshop dreamed. And so were all the Wednesday of the year, first one group, then two. Pace a new rhythm. The extraordinarily humane feeling that a group of others has something to say once a week, week to watch, as they say.
Another time (now I can not stop to recreate and give importance to things, but notice how the prose flows more than before) great for annoying and yet so was the exchange of mails with my older sister, who now lives Back in Germany, about Ceviche: liked, but as always, some not. A little to spare my wits, it annoys my passion for inventing so they do not know what I know of the other: two sides of the same quest, good and bad, to define things in a fairly stupid, nothing equivalent to richness of what happened (it is dawn and I have many more intentions than capacity). After this exchange I got to write some stories do not quite understand, he could not defend in any court. As the story of Bolt, who emerged from a mixture of these discussions with my desire to sleep and to dream, and imagine how others would feel the same. Ethics abhorrent to find in any other the little personal pain. Or just the opposite. Now I say that because I'm mad at me. And I have to go faster so that I can not finish before the end of the year to remember everything that year memorable escapes.
This is a new feature of this text, remember in future things I do not want to forget. I can not write at all, but much less so I can forget. That.

The most stupid that I proposed this text is that when I slip up to write things that happened this year (chronic type) and I'm proud. And what grace can have a text which expresses only the author as proud of his life. None. Then I learn to shut up, and so little by little I'm learning to write. Slowly.
But he treated me well, as a little thing I miss even the main, as it is the principle or is of a prince, we speak of rhythm, and some time to use agenda: since August, leaving it in August cheaper. An agenda for the first time in my life.
It's like nothing is lost. I signed up in advance every day, give me orders and I am cured, I ordered and it worked, but somehow wrong, making a game where I can at least lose the game. The agenda, my god, I do cartoons that represent the kind of responsibility that haunts me: some legs to explain that I have to leave home, an asterisk means work, a tube of phone calls pending, an envelope for mail, and well. That I am, or I write every day I want to be: a good dog.
But, good dog, I know this does not have to have a cumulative sense. Quite the contrary. But I will not go to sleep today without resolving some of this sense: they are eight and point average in the morning.
I quote from the front of the text: "I'd have to invent something. I mean, somehow.
I know I'm going to leave. "

That's right. So passed. It was five o'clock in the morning peak, recently. Terrible anxiety I still do not know why, the specific way. But I know that all of a sudden were shackled in what I would not, I do not like me. And over the certainty that everything happened in exactly the same way. And I could not change, if only it was me. All the time together on a morning when I wanted my bed. And I, who was as always here, trying to solve everything in my house that is my time machine of mine, until a light moment I knew otherwise. I had to leave. I do not know where I did not know. But I was here and then I left.
This is not good as telling. It was five and a half and I ran away from home, as in the cartoons a baby leaves with a stick hanging bag.
I'm taking the reward came. How little shame.
I went. I walked around Boulogne Sur Mer, my hero seizes street dead, still night. When I arrived in Cordoba began to leave the sun and chose to follow in Ecuador. In a moment what was cut and faced by Laprida. I took the breath to my grandmother taught me: ten sucking steps, ten steps exhaling. So all the time. After Heras all got a little more cheto, but also people in between cute. I sent along a street that did not know, I think is called Drain, and Agresti, or Agrelo. I kept walking, away from what I what, and breathing a certain way: I went to a passage in dreams, those with ladder and internal neighborhood and everything.
I looked walking the Faculty of Law, high ladders and empty, the giant flower Ibarra, the Museum of Fine Arts. It was broad daylight and came to the streets more difficult to walk: Figueroa Alcorta and all that. I went through withdrawal. I guess I lost because I could not go ahead and I followed behind. Buenos Aires
is green and when no one but the day is an extraordinarily beautiful city. A trip. I wanted to steal what was not (he was only sleeping, even non-transferable), I called his cell phone and I was angry because I do not wear these: bizarre scene. "A cell you want?".
I walked a lot, I kept walking, breathing always that way.
I was not happy as before, but a little bit, and there was a challenge involved. The river.

hotels, the Sheraton, the time at which the city becomes real. When he awakens the monster.
In Puerto Madero literal entry are some tiles that say, receiving visitors, "President Carlos Saul Menem. Interior Minister Carlos Corach. Head of Government of the City of Buenos Aires Fernando De la Rua. Inauguration of Puerto Madero, 1998. " There is nobody at that time, and I suppose when people nobody sees anything. What I wanted was to see the river. "
might not leave my house because I want to walk and not reach the River.

I sat on a stool and lit a fag. Just passing gendarmes who smoked and spoke in Guarani.

I had to come back in a taxi for 20 pesos. I could hardly move. But it was like new. When I got to bed and greeted her to sleep, I did tell some of this, invent a dream difficult to manage. Some understand without explanation. In may go in one door and out the other.
That is grace.

Now it is nine. Missing eight hours for the match Nuls.

And now? I'm going out.
If I follow her.

Mirc Redflag Bangbros

When we met, I was seriously taken: life seemed dull, intolerable and shameful, disgusting, and was convinced that he must kill later that night. I remember that I said: Nice and with permission, just kill myself and continue this wonderful romance. We were in a gallery and I explained the technique of the painter Francis Bacon. I turned on my heels to leave, but I felt that I sent a wireless message, something like do not go, I love you or what if my house have a coffee and I keep talking about the paintings of Francis. I looked you through the glass bobbing up and down, and on board a ship in rough seas, and I agreed to postpone my suicide, drinking coffee and you invited me to extend his walk to hell, others call life, provided you accompany me on the steep slope of the remainder of the year: Three months to fourteen days, said with confidence that he is brought inside out and with time at a glance the constellations are able to know the exact time and the precise coordinates of its location in the world: We are below the Tropic of Cancer, 18 degrees north latitude and 97 west longitude. Hell, it's true, we are in Mexico and there is no point sticking a shot: on the other side of this country do not pay vacation pay to those who are advanced, and it is up a room with sea view, because in our view there is no beyond or sea view or a room or bitch. You started to laugh. You laugh without restraint in what I considered the bulk of the death, truth decanted, the great outcome, and did so with a contagious laugh that death became a silly movie worn jokes, and between laughter and I slipped my hand laugh in the back, below the gauzy blouse that concealed your skin smooth, warm, perfectly machined. You come, because the wise few strokes and with a kiss that lasted for fifteen minutes, I dozed off for a little lips, and choking me, sealed the deal: By the end of the year, do you agree? Settled with a kiss again I had to free myself pushing you, then after another fifteen minutes threatened to keep lit the three months fourteen days covering our emerging deal. And stand up, I said, because in my carload of suspected drunken money you were going to charge me for your cravings. Forgive me, but at that moment I thought was a luxury Messalina, a trader in flesh curve. How could imagine, then, your marital status, your eight-cylinder car, your suite at the Paseo de la Reforma? I beat your face and the fresh scent of the night. How to dream, then, you were free, Samaritan conmisericordiosamente sweet to sink into your bed, in you and that love from which I awoke to orange juice, toasted bread and jar of honey that I poured over sheets, when you said good morning stuck in a white negligee that shows through your body.
What day is today?, I asked the employee to that habit of confusing guilty Monday to Sunday, but was a general day of rest, no less than 16 September, Independence Day, the parade down Reforma, the battalions of soldiers from twenty abreast with their muskets, their shells, their mortars, their armored tanks, their artillery and Doberman dogs. Was on shiny new motorcycles and marching bands playing the national anthem and the crowds cheering and sucking shaved of blackcurrant, guava or tamarind. And the first contingent arrived, you said to her forehead against the window. "The first contingent of what, I asked did not even know that your apartment was in Oslo street corner Paseo de Reforma. The first contingents of the parade, look, peek, and we were on the eighth floor and handsome uniforms, olive green and leaf green and brown spotted crossing area between the fences down there and whistles and balloons and pinwheels and eggs filled with flour flying from side to side. It was a day of patriotism and I did not even know your name: My name is Mara, said desprendiéndote the negligee for tying at the waist our tricolor flag at half mast. And taking you a fist to his mouth started a music of trumpets, bugles and imitation of military drums rattle coming up with their tensioned sidewalk to the room. His chest was exposed as the heroine of the painting by Delacroix, that freedom which leads the people, just make your breasts more erect and sharp, more like the headlights of a car late model strabismic illuminating the fog, there were a picture or a metaphor for the revolution, but a reality malleable, ductile, or to put duplicate once your breasts formidable made me forget the parade, my devotion to the flag, my childlike curiosity and raw awful I felt with his headache and nausea, and forced me to pounce on you like a stateless person who wanted nothing to naturalize as a resident you, citizen of your country deep or your English prodigal son abandoned at sunrise. We rolled on the floor and only sideways, stretching the neck and very biased, we see just the bunch of firemen, cowboys on horseback and Red Cross volunteer who traveled Reform with banners held high. When risen, garbage collectors brought up the rear dump sweeping the confetti, the manure, egg shells and containers of polyurethane.

So I met and started. I did not know that your department was hiding: a den first to mudabas you every time your husband was traveling and could not stand the solitude of your big house in San Angel, nor servile care of your ordering troops home who were behind you stanched the carnage that occurred in your presence. I then only knew your name, Mara, and your body: that body for twenty-seven years and roasted amassed by fifty lovers like you had perfected the taste and shaped silhouette that jaded to the point of making you go to galleries to rescue fake suicide that you speak of Francis Bacon and hell no sea and no view that certainly does not justify the rush to advance concluding that in any way must go. You know the essentials: so little that at the time any way you could have blonde impersonate without my noticing. Yet we both knew more than enough: they each had their commitments, their customs and made his life too, and that ours would last only three months to fourteen days and that neither should expect this length time of grace, that fixed-term romance, because at the slightest provocation, the first one started to mix forever with love, the first that any attempt to betray the death of what I love for life, or always stay with me, we would sink in hell, in the domestic stock of enzymes that break down all retroactively customary, even the best memories. Each his life, and we said we turned into one of those kisses that lasted over fifteen minutes in which we muscovado lips like licorice gum were those who had to start all the flavor. How do you penetrate that time, I held her hips and pushed hard to make you crack up to trap you in the depths of yourself, like a murderer, a bloodthirsty man fleeing the world through the slit in your body to the inside of you suffocating you crazy, you filled as ever. And came back to tell everyone his life, but this time shouting in a voice of freedom that I Pyrography on the soul and it was like a jolt of awareness that made me realize that there is nothing more than an instant. I emptied you, because that was because it would have been foolish to hold back and build a temple of touch to endeavor for you to seek your own pleasure. And that was, just that, my selfish passion, my personal satisfaction, which gave back to yourself and orgasm yours, completely yours and nobody else. You fell asleep without saying anything, without worrying about me, that total indifference yen at that offer the bare back, I found more love than he had found in my whole damn life cuddles and pious little women I puffed pillows and quilts covering me with her maternal love. That night I squatted beside you, I settled into a ball and I was shivering with the side within walking distance of your sex. After an hour aceda checked how our love, how to dry in your legs leaving a trail crisp white paint, until I too boring to look at your skin, but loving you, I missed a few dreams nebulae in I knew nobody, where nobody had heard of you, and the only living beings holes, water tanks holes, repeating your name with reverb. In the beginning

anything filled us with surprise: How, you are married, asked me with laughter, and your husband, a millionaire liberal who pampers you and meets your every whim? And you, an art critic? Yes, and I am a tennis player and swordsman and gladiator and Wednesday I'll rent a scapegoat for some pagan ritual devoid of martyrs, but now I am determined to found a new science: you are the object of study, I find your keys physiological body and the theorems derived from the axiom that you are a blonde, young and rich. And I put a ruler to measure yourself, but your belly growing irrational and arbitrary decreased by your laughter, and then we tearing his clothes and nobody cared and the emerging "maralogía" flexible and extent of your way to moan, or the average number of inputs and outputs needed to rip the cry of each his life. But sometimes, I sneak out with her shirt unbuttoned, because that evening you claimed your husband to go to a meeting of the society to which I was unable to attend the bitten lip, swollen like a black. A perfectly black and perfectly white blonde, told me when I applied an ice cube wrapped in the scarf that you had taken the bag and car keys in hand send me a flying kiss at the door and you were going. I was down Reforma, took a truck and when I sat in my house to write the review of Francis Bacon and the gallery where I met you, I came the desire to remember: the nose sank into my palms to find your perfume, but you no longer smelled, smelled of cigarettes and rail and truck then, I had no other recourse than to imagine where you were, "between what people say what words" blotted hundreds of pages until I finally managed to make literature a passport to sneak in your world: and there you were, Mara, select your meeting dressed in black throughout, with a diamond necklace and the natured of you hanging your husband as a rough bracelet. Nonstop talking to a group of people about Francis Bacon: the bleakness of his oils, the qualities that caught the different textures of the crisis of the soul and wrings the way figures to get them to bleed. Got everybody's embedded in your presentation outstanding, fascinated with your opinions. A once in a while, your husband gave you full of pride discrete grips on the arm were the center of the party, your success will encourage you to follow, even I saw you wonder through my glass, my admiration for you grow every second : developing the exact aesthetic categories to speak of Bacon, the adjectives you used accurate until, unable any longer, I left my dungeon of silence and raising my I proposed a toast drink. Your friends turned surprised and I repeated: Here's to Mara. All without exception raised his glass and drank a sip your confusion, your eyes rounded disbelief. I wanted to ask why he was there, how he had come, but a gust of wind rearranged the syllables of your words and all we heard a troubled I present to you ... my art history teacher, and did not mention my name, because despite having talked so much we quiet too and still did not know how to call. Paul Reyes said, and your husband's fingers strangled me so hard that spread in the air the unmistakable aroma of your perfume and a sour smell truck tube.
I do not like spying on me, you said when we met at the Department of Reform. I wanted to explain my job as a critic, my role as an intellectual, I was allowed access to certain social spheres, but did not want notes: according to you, I had appeared at the meeting because of a possessive impulses which violates the each with his life was the basis for the three months to fourteen days would last our agreement, but I had hired to not lack topics of conversation, if someone needed a point or a fun idea. I realized it was absurd to insist on the details of my profession and I accepted that costume jealous lover who offered me: it seemed romantic and so invented the story that had jumped fences, dogs poisoned and forced windows to get to the scene in which your husband almost broken finger me: I showed you and bruise you sorry. The weekend will be ours, you said, and at least I know that my name was Paul.

Since then I tried to meet you outside the department, and that in itself were a lot of costumes that would put me to increase my costumes with the costumes of Othello coming out of the closet of your past conventional and jealous lovers. I would rather by other routes, wherever you were physically impossible: Metro tunnels, the suburbs, eating at diners, I locked myself in a cheap hotel room and spent the afternoon I got into my house to make efforts to not think about you, not to violate the layers of reality appearing suddenly in your dining room table as an intruder fell from the sky or in the middle of your bed between your husband and you, because if you raided my memory on the dinner or at bedtime because I was harassing you, because did not support the independence of your life or privacy of your business. I should not poke anywhere where you do not want, for it was the department to see us there, away from your husband and eight floors of the world. He defended your freedom, you the idea of \u200b\u200bbeing bumped and falling in love with me, however, I found it wonderful to sleep with the promise of three months fourteen days, as though he had been a month and the weather was going to run out, we could extend it, hang the Annex that would give us like, why stick to what place? Not forever, never to forever, but so far come up where I could go without crutches, smoothly: a year or two, which reached. And stop talking, I said, the better closer, and this time, as if only death could break away, I knew all your farm, your woman's song without words, your body without recesses banned, and I knew beyond the nature and the order, in that place of transgression where the blood is fused with the sperm and the spirit is shaken like a raging animal that unseen hands hang. We never went and never came back further to show that courage, that craving suicide tear you skin, the body open up wide to keep me, because we were not a pair of lovers copulating, but a mess of mutilated beings to complete were grafted: it was a Siamese coupling with veins and tangled breaths. We never went further. And perhaps because all things have a peak, a pinnacle, an apex and unsurpassable, was to continue beyond that we had to start the descent, your hugs are weakened, squeeze your way abated, and you need to see me at any time did you slowing down.

I did everything to keep you excited, but the second month it seemed impossible to tackle your annoyance, looked at the clock, tardiness, I had a headache, you were menstruating or needed to write some letters. And I, however, planned what was to tell you how to fill every minute that I gave, looked the biggest lies, the more effective erotic paraphernalia and a schedule of unprecedented occurrence for every occasion. The novelty, however, went into orbit of reducible and glided through the oval of the vicious circles that were able to discover everything. I felt an obligation to have fun: if you assailed the idea that one day would have to grow old, drafted an initiative requiring that Chambers declared disaster area you and me, victim yours if you wanted an orgasm at a distance, I sat in the edge of the bed to improvise exciting tale in which adjusted the duration of the scenes at your own pace, and just driving your imagination through your favorite perversions they invented others, which then suspended the literature and the world: reached the top, inside of your body drops condensed with violence leaving without leaving you, but I was bored, bored you travel, horse walks, the perception torn stimulants, as neither do the impossible colors starry or faster than the spiral tense suddenly shot into the abyss, and the music becomes tangible and smeared as a cooling ointment on the ear drum, nothing, not even the peyote you made another in front of you and you managed to distract allowed to be ubiquitous.
It was not me or your life with me. You are at least hateful in the world, told me. They were, perhaps, Francis Bacon, the monotonous parade of soldiers or pictures, the succession of moments even, cut from the same cloth: all unique but identical: it was the time.

But until the time is up: one day three months fourteen days came to an end and, as he did two weeks since we met, I thought that gave me a justification to return to your apartment, opened the door, I sat down to wait, I poured a glass, I saw through it to the street, I entered the room, I remembered your body, your favorite phrase: each his life, an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, I looked at the time, walk back and forth, I looked at the clock, the street, the bedroom. Evening and dawn. In the morning like a drunken man who walked away from reform.


Love Story X-ray taken of my book
God does play dice