XVI. Afternoon 
And then everything seemed to return to the same, to the desperate and boring acceptance. As a reminder of Sunday afternoon, like a spasm self-stimulated, with an aroma that flew between the painful and almost forgotten. With the hundred cigars and grass over my head at a pace not only struggled to think. Can you do that?
With absolute temptation to take refuge, to let me go, having fortified beliefs give me something to live for, and struggling not to abstract to the point that I see as an immortal of Borges, I crawled, I remember and I've been doing already, for some days, holding the bike and not go back, you left. Since the Buddha began to gather dust in the drawer, since I threw away your cards but returned your kisses, since I presented my childhood vain to a stranger. Since the review of human philosophy, and like Rome, all roads lead me to cynicism, absurdity, the wrongly.
I
reviewing the newspaper who was writing to tell you again that nothing has changed, that everything is absolutely identical to your eyes filled me completely, but only for seconds, which apparently eternal, trying unsuccessfully with me, but until they attain their goal? If pensive air of suicide come to me alone, and the inspiration of so many words tangled in the rain looking to find an exit to the tunnel.
And the only escape appears to be all hell is the expression, is to strengthen a bit of everything, communicating what happens to me, excusing and not as a naughty child, but as a man surrendered, and no not even touch the point of constantly think that I could not understand how you, or you do not understand the least. And without meaning to, again I'm standing on the razor's edge, not sure if I should cut your throat or mine.
