not live lives of crumbs crumbs of the past lives sitting at a table and watch the front window of a classic film but it is well expected to jump some past or want to see this lit pedestal or overlooked in the daily lice notebook left crumbs bored settled lives grew a beard I visit once a week we talk about going to the coffee esthetician and mocks the Argentine writers gradient maimed poor can not write a line you do not hear the books read with their eyes why not put some time to listen pisingallo field and then talked for you so afraid to let the esthetician know deaf and I just like quotes gives me "and I'm not a big industrial or Argentine or American. Nothing expect from me. "Judgmental
: of friends there just come phrases. Only a promise whispering. Have fun. Malice. We
in Paradise Lost. This morning the color of lemon fight against the feeling of futility bites the hand. The hand writing. Because Paradise was forever lost to us was fast, because we always look to the opposite sidewalk, supreme teaching, that was the happiness that was there and not here. And that brand is forever. It's a wound more than a brand. I hate the word mark hate the word hate the word mark feature. What do I do with this persistent rejection? I do not know how to follow it. My life. That, of living. I look at the clothes hanging at the bottom of Sarandi. It is not the uterus. The uterus and left. You can not rewrite the uterus. Or can it? I miss him. I miss my findings. But do not write again and again the findings. Now I want to see! It is not the uterus. It's a lot of memories of the morning. We must put the bottle into the sea. Who said ships lost? Everyone here moves between six and one in the afternoon? Pass the baker, the outline, just, walk in arrhythmic, sleepwalking, is a baker at sixteen. But you can move house. I sketch in notes. Three lines along slowly. But the writing and the next. I do them a little visible. I'm slow. In the other room the bride lives. The window gives the garden. Fatally opens in the morning sun. She ran her squeamishness to win boyfriend. Grabbed him. A clip of girlfriend. And always installed in the next room. From here it will not move anyone. Continue here. It is a desperate lyricism. Ah! idiots of the devotion, do not fall, do not come, they will find no bohemian folk. I hate the bohemian. And I hate artists. In the next room which is skewed to the lives of an old girlfriend who looked with black eyes that happiness in the midst of all those poor devils. One had said to be literate: pure Soutine. Always at the door, sitting and three quarters, almost pyramidal, hands on knees, knees well together without a beard, long hair, what looks? Where do you look when you do not see the happiness?
La Primera Argentina on the sidewalk where the dog bite. It is a jump to the cord, there was water and the two dogs waiting for the candidate that twins skip to bite him in the leg, the dog bite there, what to do. The dog will be bewildered. Another classic. Of life. Monitor those who are on invoice. Dogs are early morning motherfuckers that stick to the pants and the owner loves them as two garden statues. The guys who love their dogs to bite leave delirium. Love the dog is what most understand but would kill those two. The format of this in the past.
the rattle word to no one, is the language.
The silence speaks. Who said he does not speak? Despotic silent, sometimes. Now I saw the silence. But I also saw a side of malice. Of slander that flows well, of those who have stuck to the soles of shoes. He turned around and told the audience: "Do you think he's bored there, so far?" The malice is glued to the soles of shoes. I saw the false friends. Their malice is sudden, uncontrollable, nastiest, meanest, most incisive. The mockery, that can not read pisingallo. Types eaten by the joke so full of general ideas know no sidekick, no not that, sure, no hear the books they read with the eyes. With the eyes of ridicule. What are the eyes of helplessness. Of terror.
And I feel persecuted intermittently relieving paranoid comprehensive sniffing and sneering derision in the air I see it disintegrate into laughter fernet lose balance rid of arguments provided by the purity of life and literature in translation is a junky translation of languages \u200b\u200bthat dominates not delve into the intricacies of potential errors and does not dominate any good if I just read a mockery of lading which the academic can not dismiss contemptuously not encouraged knows nothing of the sovereign indifference zilch poor devil of helplessness intoxicated to know I will not contradict.
My breakfast: toast with tomato and olive oil coffee. As I am disturbed by the hate jazz Banquet like all true disturbed by the jazz I start very early jazz solo I hear the wind coming from Lavalle and Order that the winter wind that freezes the sheets when not plates. That you put your hands in Sabayon, almost. There is a poem in the wind is always a poem in the wind like the wind I hear Lacámera paint Lacámera hear me har dilapidation away the lazy parasite stalking.
why I say all this? - Lost paths.
way to censor books - declare them impractical.
The night is about getting out of the circle inevitable damn dimes of fragote of malice but you can not give it all happened to raindrops on the nostalgia of that night over can not understand anything anyone is not an alibi for not going and even with all the tenderness of farewell clearly not supported not supported arrogant asshole I know my life story you can not hear anything I hear the refrain of the frozen but not hear any music you hear is not your life when going to write your life I write my life I have no fear to onomatopoeia that come and go here I have the piano in the kitchen and have to bear the touch of what is to pay is the holy ghosts of the past of such tiles goodbye polka dot dress cleat rescued the half free half humming many sounds in that ear out for some waiting on the other side of the table.
All these outrageous twisted uncertainties.
Today I read the word heather. Two leaves
: helplessness. Poetics
am not the only one who gets abused chickens hens conventillea. He does not chickens. Clear. It is also clear that describe places: no: I place. Fund sausage house in Sarandi, O'Higgins street. Another thing that I can not help. Why fuck the mocking? I hear the voice on the voice tenant Soto scented cologne, cool summer morning, I leave here, easy to mock this sack of potatoes that fell off the truck in Ranelagh station, I leave, I prefer the mystery voice that opens Soto door, not so husky, leaving the morning of the turkey, goes to the bathroom, the only, the bottom, passes like a shadow on scarf, crop and gargle, how many minutes. Rivets in the corner. Social life: none. Yes, you can.
heard an album by Lucio Demare the piano. A voice, there are voices, yes, there, happy accents.
That's the scenery that is unique in that of the kettle fulgurancias am like the wind sunny January as the gardens or black figs or fig defied the order of the phrases or impenetrable appearances that make me delirious of Pipa e'moco which is another claimant shadow that walks like a pattern residence but neither was the glimpse pawn I have not the fear I have lost would you? and Alucema in the window is rolled back even a shadow of fear in the carpenter's bench boyfriend overboard husband travels forgotten corner of the kettle in the morning.
Hugo Savino
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