COULD BE ALL THAT WAS ALREADY.
The day has turned gray. Moisture and cold start me sad. actually make me sad to say that the humidity and the onset of the cold but that's not what makes me sad, nor the feeling of chills I feel in heels.
I get out of bed, ensconced in a corner of the apartment on a room, and while in the Middle Jubox the PC sounds Amelia by Joni Mitchell, sad as the mother-whore I leaned against the window and reached the square to glimpse the outside world, not I'll go again this weekend.
Actually what makes me sad is that everything that could be and was. That there will be nothing new, do not even want to have something new, that nothing interests me. What if I am interested in anything that makes me sad?
I look at the library covering the entire wall from floor to ceiling, and think of all the books I had to leave, but there are those of Onetti. The other day in the supplement of a cheap magazine I learned that, before any predecessor as Italianate, was O'nety, Irish and Walsh. is a day like many of the books Onetti, a character look like so many of Onetti, but even I have the malice of many of them. Not even evil ... has a book called When no amount .
not have written the stories he would write, not novels ... and I had a great love. And I can not get drunk because the hangover the next day is unbearable. Everything was happening in the inertia and ineffectiveness, not realizing that those were my strengths.
not have wanted too and I have wanted too. was all a hoax, he was even when I thought I was participating in a revolution that would inevitably. Inevitably nothing came. All he could be and was and was so little.
that remains is to be a bitter mate, settle down at the computer and enter the Facebook .
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