It’s all white as snow.

Yeah, I usually do it. Smoke my cigarettes until they’re burning the tip of my fingers and most usually… burning the pinkish surface of my lips. Pink and perfect as they are. Like them damn rounded and circumspect nipples. Like fucking lazy eyeballs, they remain there, staring at you, so closely you forget about the silver simplicity of the mirror. The kind of simplicity that is easiest to forget if it’s hard to type and and you have gulled down a very cheap bottle of wine. Wine, big entrepreneur of the inner struggle trying to come out in all this derangement, all these little earthquakes bursting out of your belly.

Con hambre no se puede pensar, says No te va a gustar…. So fucking true. If your soul is starving for something it gets sickening foggy to think. And most of all, to make any sense. Or perharps, you make most sense of all. Out of all this uneased spirit-drunken episodes comes this white page full of ink. What may come out of it, only the wine-maker knows. I, for sure, know shit.

The ideal part of everything is as hard as it is to type straight and not to misspell, how much you can get to make sense with the reality of things while you are unaware of being possessed of Self.

Band names. Get used to that. In this thing, whatever it is, they’re as present as the ever-present shout of Love. Love, the biggest pest of the 21st century. Sunkilmoon. That must mean I’m dead… and I was probably dead on arrival. Aguante vino! Y aguante all of the roads that I have to walk in my honest and most utopist attempt to evict this ghost. Can’t account to all the lovers I’ve burnt through, so why do I still burn for you? I cannot say. Yeah, sun killed moon. And I killed me. With the likes of a man that twisted the knife just the right way.
Ohio.

I am always amazed –let’s be honest, not always! but most of the times- by those lost but optimistic souls that starve themselves with the ideal of the eternal sense of things. I resign those issues. So here you have it. This is the writing of that one who awaits for 2am to come out at times, encounters the very engaging drunk environment to soak it in and actually have something to vomit. Hopefully such returning of nature’s way shall happen here, in these white pages stained with this fake ink that follows my clumsy finger as it makes it’s own way through…

It’s most probable that it was me, and only me, the sole responsible of this whole mess. This catastrophe.