Lia Villares (Havana, 1983)
We forecast the timing or sleepers (fragment)
How does it feel to Be Without a home like a complete unknown
Bob D moi
hours in front of me eye-ball-drop a friend's dog. Black mirrors unfathomable.
very similar to yours, her eyes away. Setting your number on the telephone, wireless, my friend. I hope. Comes a voice I expected. Hang. In my belly jar loose oatmeal with vanilla scented smoke. My hair down on the pillow spreads, vertical.
Drops a fruity, others. Salgo.
I'm in a car for Belascoaín. Miro reluctantly landslides, the filth of the balconies with no sheets, no flags. Park Follies. Mt. The Conservatory, where he spent three years, neither good nor bad, four rather, where I learned the sad and not happy to have you. Miro emptied, flawed, broken the mirror that holds the big hand of a mulatto, who shaves in a doorway. Reaches the sea. Is the limit. We are always embroidered or dodging, we always end up close. The guy who runs it forces me to hear a disc of Jennifer López. Is the price. Everyone is subjected to the other. Everyone abused and neglected. Everyone despairs, Peluso.
expected. Jennifer
imagine leaving a waterfall, in profile, slipping her hair with both hands. We are getting used to the daily horror. Everywhere. A bastard driver, a waitress ruthless, a very bad movie in a very bad movie. Is the price. We stop at 1458 Princess Street. Two blocks from the famous corner now Texas. From here you can see the stadium lights. Favorite team plays the inhabitants of this city. The garbage truck stops at the cafe, den of three dollars. Sell \u200b\u200bcapitols, some cupcakes with meringue dome-shaped top, and Havana, with a scoop of coffee ice cream inside. A cult to this dump. We can only misaligned, misplaced. Further. JAAD hours
Something. Expropriating the world and making it a wink from across the ocean inevitable: another small room in Malecon, a piece of window and a unique-sea, or vice versa. Nothing. Most of the time the waves did not allow him to sleep. And when they did it was to vague soñarlas swallowed whole city until his breath tired. Across the street the trumpeting of bread, avocado and sunflower shook me and stood at a stretch. I had to dust off the soul and throw it to sleep by the window to the street for several hours raised and unthinkable, gone-without-off: the time wasted and the engine noise into the esophagus. All too inappropriate. All too, is everything? Rhizome hours
be is to be perceived.
As in Beckett's film treatment silly to extinguish, eliminate double taxation.
(Expel animals, cover the mirror, cover the furniture, tear the stamp, tear the photos.) Frightening thing is that perception is one by one, irrepressible in this regard.
balance, luyanero chair that puts me on hold in the middle of nowhere, as in Beckett's film. Said someone, surely Nietzsche, we prefer to still have the will to nothingness rather than not wanting anything at all.
(Expel animals, cover the mirror, cover the furniture, tear the stamp, tear the photos.)
Esse est percipi.
mixed
hours
let me bask in the glow of my lamp opaque night. Lamp manufactured by blanka, painted in dark watercolors of the sea seemed mismatched in color resulted dirty. I loved it. Especially when they could mix both tones did not differ from each other. The smell was leaving the paper thin when heated a bit was delicious. I wanted to write a little, so I made chocolate for us, very strong as preferred blanka, which in turn had written a story about three friends who end up bleeding to death with a knife after smoking in a bathtub and take chocolate. Such stories as surreal and morbid own fantastically sad. After splashing over red with a few comments nonsense language and repeated phrases or words put The Cure and sat down to write about my mother, when he looked like a fool the explosion, also red, the flamboyant front balcony June. But I did not like were structured as phrases or words that were chosen. Remembered Tues bolañianos writing poems and stories more bolañeros yet. Came out like water. Listened to The Cure or the group of Michel Gondry, or Tom Waits. Sometimes he would go with the laptop to the bathroom and had 5 poems at once mocking some of the prolific RF.
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