The lost war.

The thing is,
she said,
that
my soul
is like a nazy lab
swollen
of experiments
that never seem
to stop
           going
                 wrong

And then
she left,
elipsys
of
   my
       last
defeat.

Paranoia Hope.

Paranoia
was wrong.
There wasn't
anybody
there.

To Alejandra Pizarnik.

Now,
even
Freedom
took
away
from here.

i`m, so ...

Ok, ok,
so this is me.

Los hombres que grababan casetes.

Los hombres que grababan casettes practicaban una ceremonia, un arte olvidado,  un tanto generoso.

Ellos tenían un don. Detectaban en el otro una necesidad musical insatisfecha, un trabajo inconcluso en la construcción de la banda de sonido que nos acompaña el resto de la vida.

wish.

Volvé
cuando
Desees.

It´s probably me.

-"You´re nothin´but a waste of talent!" She said..
-"You don´t write shit since months, you lazy fuck"!
Then she left.

Now I stare myself in her mirror. I don´t recongnize myself in her eyes. I´m not that.
I will not write about this.
She never reached the real me.

Without her, once again, I feel such a waste.
Maybe that´s my talent.