youth cigarette write fairy tale
Thomas Chatterton
End Of A Clerk
Exaggeration to call it murder and reckless. To say that I did out of pity, would commune with sacred error. Asymptomatic this unfortunate slip is located between the crime prosaic and euthanasia. Anyway, the funny thing is the fact (unfortunate) and inelegant way to run. Ok, in the business, twenty-two stab wounds is not a devastating figure, but it is something, well, trivial.
Why did I do? Some argue insanity, other: love, love in excess. I contend that they were both at the same time.
Here the writer stopped and began to elucidate a more or less worthy continuation. Looking for a sordid and convincing explanation, neurotic and yet justified. But no, the story was screwed. Perhaps born dying, he thought. And the act of sitting down to write devoid of any idea so abject confirmed the suspicion. It was strange had happened twice in one week. Ten writer winters over and it started to happen, things that we agree, at heights and are unacceptable. He thought of removing the blade from the machine and restart. But something in his heart prevented him from getting rid of that page unhappy embarrass insisted. Mildly irritated, he rose from his chair and went for the whiskey bottle unopened. Four moons fasting had reconstituted and authorizing the toast alone. Spanish whiskey was a not too bad. When opened, much was pleased that the peak of the bottle were free, plastic dispenser with a ball inside, that they tend to bring all the bottles of whiskey ... He took the peak one, two, three, four and after a few sips second, one more. And Pacific, looked out the window and stared at the obelisk in the square mediocre giving your room. Further, behind the obelisk inadmissible Plaza Cardenal Reig, he saw many windows looking into other lives. Lives rare, he thought. People are strange, he thought. I'm pretty normal, he thought. After a weak smile, grabbed a fag packet that was on the bedside table and lit it as he slumped back on the single bed, white cotton sheets. Smoked sad, without thinking about the damned story. The wisps of smoke rose whimsical, softly outlined by chance, losing to perfection in the dark white ceiling. A osram burned hanging from a cable. Nice metaphor, he thought. The bedroom walls were also white. There was no picture or poster, or photos (the photos burned). There were other things, or rather, there was a varied one thing: books, old books that hung on the wall tack nails. Open books in half and well Pegaditas the wall, hanging from these nails. So they gave the impression of walking doubtful on the walls. There was also an open book on a rectangular glass held by a strange metal. Another book closed on the table and many other books in the library of the adjoining storage room where they were also the typewriter, chair and wardrobe. In short, it was a piece rich in talismans and populated by an absence, an absence unforeseen blessed ... So here I stopped, useless. I put out the cigarette on the road full of humiliation incommunicable stopped writing. Then, I know, came the pills which I keep in the closet. Yes, then the pills and a few shots of cheap whiskey.
***
Romantic gesture: the end there were twenty-two stab wounds were eventually mixed with alcohol anxiety.
Source: http://www.sursensual.com.ar
