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signifier and signified. Home

Significant : Sitting in the drizzle and amenguanada moon. Eye lashes fighting to not intertwine. You just turn on coffee and cigarettes.

Musical background: Mariel and the captain - Sui Generis

Meaning:

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. In March.

B. What color is it?

A. Blue.

B. If you are colorblind, I forgot. And how can you study design?

A. I am not colorblind is blue.

B. Is green.

A. Blue.

B. Colorblind.

A. I am studying it.

B. Dejémozlo already there. No matter. Do you have classes now?

A. On Tuesday I'm free.

B. Ah true. "A chelas for the night?

A. If I have classes on Wednesday.

B. Just a touch, long time no talk ...

A. We're talking. Also I do not like the beer. I go to sleep. I want grass.

B. As qiero ...

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what? Murderer

What if this is my last cigarette? If the eternal glow becomes no more than a stinking pool of blood. And why the moon would have to say something? If to conversations with myself have become feverish and aggressive. And what if I never write? If words are nothing but treacherous and if my sailboat, two seas echolalic seems lost. What if I just with everything and nothing at once? That's why everything is nothing. What if what I thought is only valuable ideas, they would have to accompany me wherever I go? Would it not be only in my head? In my crazed and increasingly tangled head. Should not all this be true? What if I dive between the aleph of the material and ideal, and would not have reached the maximum step planned? And what if you jump? What if no jump?

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steppe. Intervention

With this, one of the last four cigarettes I have left, trying to cope with night, moon shine, and reflecting on my background, I come back to the wild conclusion that I am one of the last steppe who live around here , the cafes and there are crazy, petty bourgeois holes are disappearing and are depleted the masses of people with little interest in life, with which I liked to talk, look at night alone with my company only and the charm of the moon and moth seems to no longer offer inspiration for those who call themselves writers. Turbulent times, instant coffees, cigars with tax and letters without regard that awaits the new blood-drenched night that involved me not knowing how.

I've seen on these nights of ties and rails, lost in the walls, which are farther from each other, the space is absolutely empty. Be that this is the life of one of mine, is that everyone goes through the same desolate trance. Araucaria not give away the smiles, the songs do not bounce scenarios that describe everything is locked in a prison lacks straight walls, devoid of corners, a mental prison, absolutely abstract as to be unable to escape it, perfect and some internal so as not to get away than necessary. Must be the demons I've heard, and I could not share with others, otherwise it is not.

The fight with the wolf and the prince pensive, paralyzes me not knowing if I'm wandering or successful decisions. It is disappearing so precious, the ideal, in the shadow of the walls, dark alleys, as covered in blood, foul-smelling dog, which illuminated by moonlight, in an eternal blast sinks, on the precipice of an aleph forgotten in the howling wolf outrageous emitting sick of this, the human body that contains. And among the absolutely magical and occasional answers are all being, of being and to do. And the log of what was lost between the memory and fate, giving rise to other variables vomit encrypted, and the pool of blood of the victims who have become debased by the truth that is increasingly distant and over paralyzing the white mist.

I'll be back, dropped the knife and also left the appearance of the howling mammal, and watch the murdered body falling backwards in time even more infinite madness around me I pray not to sink into another puzzle ocean false end.