Illustration Mae, whom I thank deeply Cristian, to whom the letters were crazy.
The clear bottle and contents in it: a honey-colored tequila that is disappearing at the speed of small whistles that I'm smoking pot, bring me swirls emotional gratitude to those who once shared space with me. Alfaro
Saved
remember, an old neighborhood burglar who lived in Vallejo neighborhood north of Mexico City. It was he who taught me Perique coca to get me through the nose. Previously I would smoke and although the feeling is almost the same hit in the neck and eyes does not compare to anything in the world. Also I have fond
moments in my memory of the David Alfaro Sic of the band, amateur painter who died like a dog bled to death in a psychiatric hospital in the state of Morelos to paint the soft walls of his cell with his own blood, to deny the guards paints and a notebook to consider some playful activity and "dangerous."
But today I'll tell you about my friend Christian, who brought sighs of those who were fortunate to see him in his walk through the chaotic and polluted city or screwed people-poor but beautiful and full of light - and a another hole which got after lifting drains covers anywhere.
When I met him I fell in love with her face a tough but indescribable finesse, like a portrait of the Marquis de Sade. Their walk was quiet and moved his hands gracefully when he spoke, without knowing it was lovingly recreated scenes as horrific, sublime, mundane and complex with ten fingers and two palms.
All College girls following him even when he ignored them without the slightest embarrassment: do I keep whores daughters of bitches! I cried when I saw a small group of more than two girls whispered and laughed after her figure.
In my first approach I was surprised that his face had nothing to do with their manners. It was somewhat bizarre speech, its vocabulary bordering on mediocrity and the word that best whores heard him say was. He had a sense resentment towards the opposite sex that made me think he was gay, rebuttable question in more than one occasion.
I went out with Cristian for wives. Seeing that he rejected them came to me as comfort and possible shaft approach. I used them, lied to them and after two or more words of poet fell rendered illegal some still with some hope of getting something from the "other."
One morning while I smoked marijuana Cristian wonder he felt. I stared at him as I could not explain with words and to mime, as he surely would have expressed, I replied that it would be better than experienced. Since that time Cris, as many affectionately called him, never stopped eating the grass that would come to be considered sacred.
Until that time he did not even smoke cigarettes, and took no more did was elucidate and travel through the holes that were made between his fingers for several minutes when he covered his face with them before your eyes moving quickly.
studied their language but we do not see any semblance of it, it bothered me because he thought that one side must be consistent with his attitude and was rather vulgar. Besides at that time I considered myself a Don Juan, a Cortázar, a Machiavelli. My reading and analysis gave me an air of notoriety among the boys of no more than eighteen years with whom I gathered. Therefore
started to lend books which quickly devoured. Once I returned Blindness Test for two days after he had delivered.
- Ugh! Brother, I have not slept but now I understand better the complexity of the human race, "he said.
His speech began to improve their appearance denoting carelessness and fatigue and their addiction to marijuana growing. One thing I elucidated on the other arguing that there was nothing like the expression through the spoken word and the letters and get the keys to the wisdom to understand and use these routes was worth any risk.
One night during the holidays Cris came to my house sweating and confused. I had researched my address and after seemingly endless rounds had given me.
-Uf, brother I have to provide a book for the love of God, "he said
" But there are libraries for that bastard, who do not know, "I replied - Puzzled
Cris made an analogy in which my be visualized as a complex Aleph : as a universe of knowledge, without which he could not live. Almost Borges are the book I cried excitedly. Cristian understood that his dream was obsessed by literature and my face which I asked him to let him play with his hands felt cold and agile on my cheeks, mouth, nose and forehead.
A sunny day at one of our many walks through the school, told me that I saw in a dream always represents several characters from books:
- I've viewed as Don Quixote, as Justina, Chinasky, Pedro Páramo, Chin Chin teporocho, Sal Paradise, Dean Moriarty, Bull Lee, The Lady of the Camellias and even the Raven; and although there are no pictures to everyone always see your face attached to each character harmoniously - he said frantically.
was surprised, I had never taken my freak and to elucidate the extreme. I saw my favorite literary characters as purely metaphysical entities, never materialized. Cris was baffled and more haggard and mad desire to smoke marijuana.
When I smoke I do not read told me, is a train to understanding one thing leads to another, if smoked understand and understand, if not just look at letters without regard to my mind, telling me wholly convincing argument with his deep black eyes fixed on mine. I was freaking out, it raises and guardadamente hated that.
If not previously paid attention to any girl now less. Paradoxically had darkened and who was chasing me but I had already lost interest in anything other than the attitude of Christ toward life. Were complemented by literature.
A wet and rainy evening came to my house crying. He shouted that he saw my face in his hands. Between his fingers, palms, nails, and even dolls my face followed him, never wanted to see them because I was afraid that I killed him using his own limbs. He wore gloves. Cristian
was crazy and her family soon realized. He began to hallucinate and see me in the water I drank, therefore let it consume. Smoked more marijuana and once threw a glass cup to his mother that confused me.
He was held on a farm of six months which came right for me, begging for a book which does not pay, give me back I argued earlier, which never did.
Returning to his apparent daily Cristian threw one day to the tracks meter. The moth was scared, women screamed and promptly pulled a lever by an individual saved the lives of our companion.
never saw him again and never recovered more than a hundred books he had shared with him. My peace was gone also with letters printed sheets bound.
Shortly afterwards when I went to visit the hospital informed me that Christian hands was cut with a sharp glass that got nobody knows where saying he would not see a face that haunted him every passing his fingers rapidly in front of his eyes. They are not able to save, is gangrenous, and his wrists would stump pure forever.
reader I know: I have my pass to hell. Don Fer
November 2007
The clear bottle and contents in it: a honey-colored tequila that is disappearing at the speed of small whistles that I'm smoking pot, bring me swirls emotional gratitude to those who once shared space with me. Alfaro
Saved
remember, an old neighborhood burglar who lived in Vallejo neighborhood north of Mexico City. It was he who taught me Perique coca to get me through the nose. Previously I would smoke and although the feeling is almost the same hit in the neck and eyes does not compare to anything in the world. Also I have fond
moments in my memory of the David Alfaro Sic of the band, amateur painter who died like a dog bled to death in a psychiatric hospital in the state of Morelos to paint the soft walls of his cell with his own blood, to deny the guards paints and a notebook to consider some playful activity and "dangerous."
But today I'll tell you about my friend Christian, who brought sighs of those who were fortunate to see him in his walk through the chaotic and polluted city or screwed people-poor but beautiful and full of light - and a another hole which got after lifting drains covers anywhere.
When I met him I fell in love with her face a tough but indescribable finesse, like a portrait of the Marquis de Sade. Their walk was quiet and moved his hands gracefully when he spoke, without knowing it was lovingly recreated scenes as horrific, sublime, mundane and complex with ten fingers and two palms.
All College girls following him even when he ignored them without the slightest embarrassment: do I keep whores daughters of bitches! I cried when I saw a small group of more than two girls whispered and laughed after her figure.
In my first approach I was surprised that his face had nothing to do with their manners. It was somewhat bizarre speech, its vocabulary bordering on mediocrity and the word that best whores heard him say was. He had a sense resentment towards the opposite sex that made me think he was gay, rebuttable question in more than one occasion.
I went out with Cristian for wives. Seeing that he rejected them came to me as comfort and possible shaft approach. I used them, lied to them and after two or more words of poet fell rendered illegal some still with some hope of getting something from the "other."
One morning while I smoked marijuana Cristian wonder he felt. I stared at him as I could not explain with words and to mime, as he surely would have expressed, I replied that it would be better than experienced. Since that time Cris, as many affectionately called him, never stopped eating the grass that would come to be considered sacred.
Until that time he did not even smoke cigarettes, and took no more did was elucidate and travel through the holes that were made between his fingers for several minutes when he covered his face with them before your eyes moving quickly.
studied their language but we do not see any semblance of it, it bothered me because he thought that one side must be consistent with his attitude and was rather vulgar. Besides at that time I considered myself a Don Juan, a Cortázar, a Machiavelli. My reading and analysis gave me an air of notoriety among the boys of no more than eighteen years with whom I gathered. Therefore
started to lend books which quickly devoured. Once I returned Blindness Test for two days after he had delivered.
- Ugh! Brother, I have not slept but now I understand better the complexity of the human race, "he said.
His speech began to improve their appearance denoting carelessness and fatigue and their addiction to marijuana growing. One thing I elucidated on the other arguing that there was nothing like the expression through the spoken word and the letters and get the keys to the wisdom to understand and use these routes was worth any risk.
One night during the holidays Cris came to my house sweating and confused. I had researched my address and after seemingly endless rounds had given me.
-Uf, brother I have to provide a book for the love of God, "he said
" But there are libraries for that bastard, who do not know, "I replied - Puzzled
Cris made an analogy in which my be visualized as a complex Aleph : as a universe of knowledge, without which he could not live. Almost Borges are the book I cried excitedly. Cristian understood that his dream was obsessed by literature and my face which I asked him to let him play with his hands felt cold and agile on my cheeks, mouth, nose and forehead.
A sunny day at one of our many walks through the school, told me that I saw in a dream always represents several characters from books:
- I've viewed as Don Quixote, as Justina, Chinasky, Pedro Páramo, Chin Chin teporocho, Sal Paradise, Dean Moriarty, Bull Lee, The Lady of the Camellias and even the Raven; and although there are no pictures to everyone always see your face attached to each character harmoniously - he said frantically.
was surprised, I had never taken my freak and to elucidate the extreme. I saw my favorite literary characters as purely metaphysical entities, never materialized. Cris was baffled and more haggard and mad desire to smoke marijuana.
When I smoke I do not read told me, is a train to understanding one thing leads to another, if smoked understand and understand, if not just look at letters without regard to my mind, telling me wholly convincing argument with his deep black eyes fixed on mine. I was freaking out, it raises and guardadamente hated that.
If not previously paid attention to any girl now less. Paradoxically had darkened and who was chasing me but I had already lost interest in anything other than the attitude of Christ toward life. Were complemented by literature.
A wet and rainy evening came to my house crying. He shouted that he saw my face in his hands. Between his fingers, palms, nails, and even dolls my face followed him, never wanted to see them because I was afraid that I killed him using his own limbs. He wore gloves. Cristian
was crazy and her family soon realized. He began to hallucinate and see me in the water I drank, therefore let it consume. Smoked more marijuana and once threw a glass cup to his mother that confused me.
He was held on a farm of six months which came right for me, begging for a book which does not pay, give me back I argued earlier, which never did.
Returning to his apparent daily Cristian threw one day to the tracks meter. The moth was scared, women screamed and promptly pulled a lever by an individual saved the lives of our companion.
never saw him again and never recovered more than a hundred books he had shared with him. My peace was gone also with letters printed sheets bound.
Shortly afterwards when I went to visit the hospital informed me that Christian hands was cut with a sharp glass that got nobody knows where saying he would not see a face that haunted him every passing his fingers rapidly in front of his eyes. They are not able to save, is gangrenous, and his wrists would stump pure forever.
reader I know: I have my pass to hell. Don Fer
November 2007
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