'm in the middle of the room study room, living room, cinema room, gazebo on the roof, tablao, inn, retreat last minute ... prelude to my sheets, scene of long breakfast with you, with the swallows, with robotech and transformers and all those papelajos I like to write in the mornings, at that hour in which ideas flowing, I have a happy and head cock filled other suggestions thousands of happy playing barefoot on the carpet in my subconscious.
time this house lies before me, bright as the first day, simple and bright as a baby reptile in the bottom of a pond.
of me moving are:
... lamps that I never took until the last day because it would surrender them out definitely give the house last night to the impersonal and almost eerie light of the bulbs that hang loosely from the ceiling of all slums in the world. Clothing
... tomorrow I have to choose to exit last seen more formal than I am to work that otherwise never did better person.
... the black sheets, which long ago I caught on how well they are shaping the bodies in them, and when removed I'll take with them the idea of que vuelvas a follar aquí conmigo, bien dobladita para que no se arrugue, para tenderlas de nuevo en dios sabe qué camas, qué cuartos, qué pisos, qué casas, qué calles y qué lares… que habré de hacerte atravesar de nuevo para traerte a retozar entre mis sábanas negras.
...cajas sin cerrar.
...cachivaches de los que no he sabido deshacerme.
...rollos, sheets and several old papers. It's funny how ideas, something as delicate as actually scribbled ideas on something as volatile as a loose and crumpled sheet, which is not owned by stubborn naivete of paper, are reluctant to leave the field. As if in the midst of this mess would have time answering them. At the end will come in the last note; malmetidas huddled in the glove compartment or under the passenger seat accompany my ideas to the center of the next disorder.
... this computer, when I put out tonight, will swallow the window that connects the home to the world just as seen from the screen, the world we look for things, leave things, communicate, read and write.
... and their cables to the wall snaking through the empty stage.
only in the kitchen, perfectly intact and a little dirty, my everyday resist entrenched.
What to do with so many dishes. Probably leave here. Al
open the fridge and unplugged, and the closet (I love this word, is the warm sharpness of the kitchen) ... I have found plenty of food, fruits, eggs, tupergüers, cans and other packages that stared at me from the inside. Was opening little doors and there were growing, as if they were to each other by a secret passage (muttering, jokes, to laugh, keeping a silent copy-basil is the most geek-) ... Do not put that face, I also warned me that this would happen. Tomorrow I'll have to bring all this to friends and neighbors to which suits them. Some to be surprised. Each has its peculiarities to make the purchase.
But that will happen tomorrow. Today is my last dinner in front of the cathedral is lit out there, floating like every day about the thousands of anonymous shadows of the roofs of the city, as if the world's surface had been broken into pieces.
So I searched the cloth and in the middle of the room almost empty, avoiding tangles of cables, boxes, loose in the corners and gaps that have left my things not now (and that suddenly made me Suddenly a little uncomfortable as an invisible barriers and fun as going down the street without underwear) ... I've set the table for dinner at home. I brought the best clothes, even I have made myself that flower fabric that I put in the hole of the paper roll ass.
And the truth is that I have put purple.
-tortellini (the potions of cake and meat frozen in 200g bags. To which I became addicted in college), with tomato sauce, oregano and basil in generous quantities. Gulas
-salad.
-miso soup, I've loaded enough just to experience what happens when you take away the subtlety to the subtle flavor of the concoction that I bought to find out what the hell is it that Japanese students take both the novels of Murakami. The result is a metallic taste that reminded me the first night I was with a woman. She was the rule and my the smell, along with the essence of jasmine that perfumed, I stuck with a huge and vital sense of gratitude.
-For dessert I have eaten several mandarins ... I can eat tangerines indefinitely.
... and a huge bowl of popcorn, I can not indefinitely, but that while the frames run, "today" Dreams of a seductive "- my arm is still shooting and carrying the bowl to my mouth.
Now
... I'm embarrassment.
... ... And it's fun, why I always reserve a little hungry for write ...
Now put a movie in which Harrison Ford desperately searches for his wife in Paris. I have lowered the volume and Boris Vian I have no sound image from the film mixed with music is like having Paris a fishbowl. The aquarium in the world. Across TV, on the other side of the screen, the other side of the last night here.
I pour myself the last ass vodka in Poland that brought me to the last ass of that unpronounceable concoction that I brought from Sweden. The liquids are mixed in the space of glass I raise before me, while I smoke and I let my thoughts fly through space in the house.
There is some nostalgia and a certain vitality. Never
I would talk about these things in the last day of the period of my life which coincided with the life of this house.
But when this is severe it is difficult to record things.
something and do it for me.
I just feel my empty house. Empty
as a blank paper on which the future will be written.
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