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Anchoring in the future

ceased to be when I say I am. Every word I made it submerged in the mud of the past, and memory can only be a battered rag to help clean the artifacts, without thereby resume their bright primary. What if instead of a past event I hold a future? A future that by enrolling in what I say, it loses all virtuality and would catch me in the letters as a prophecy. Write my autobiography from the future and therefore fill me facts indicating that I lived every day have been permeated by something more subdued than the vacuum, by those who own distraimiento smile. Windows closed and shades down will be enough to start, "March 21, 2043. Today my doctor diagnosed dementia begin to sharpen, so I write this, raising the possibility that the cleaning of all my past, and therefore my life, so allow me to reinvent myself and read everything I write, as if glimpsed in the mirror and face the ignorance of which is always updated. It is the chance to live, because forget my former days, to live a single day with the endless options it gives me the absence of any memory. August 31, 2043. This time I presume that is where I write, I do not know what year and ground are screaming that killed Gaitán though that my grandmother told me when I was little, she said she saw flames and Bogotá in the newspapers seemed to act hastily in images of anger and that she saw them but could not read or I thought so because he had dementia. Poor grandma. I also think poor me I do not remember anything, but hey, I can keep inventing and I can say and I can know that I am the same thing as yesterday and perhaps the next morning, but am not going to know. Another day or the same. The dates are over and breath, breath that I used to type, to make notes. There are not many words, forget the previous, previous, Rointe. " Days will not be embedded in anything written. Not even the life itself will be a disappearance, not even be limited in silence.

Aszeta

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"In this city, all are very handsome," she told you reaffirming your statement, just as they were about embracing on the train. Knew she was not his remains, which she had a nice couple of guys that break open. Also I knew that would incur in meeting with one of those beautiful boys who roamed the streets with shining blue eyes, just to feel comforted.
once tried to kiss her more, and she put the palms of your hands on your chest skinny, and I broke up enough to say I had a little sleep and wanted to lie on your shoulder much more squalid than a newborn deer.
You let her back his face and not embraced it, You hit your arms extended to the trunk and looked yours seasons pass. When did you had decided to leave the city frozen by handsome young men and women? If you could not even do something on yours, how would change the outlook in the midst of so handsome, so many bodies that made you feel a ravenous beast that waited for the huge predator left some loopholes that you could swallow; those remains were enough to leave wounded on the verge of annihilation every bone roías hurt you more than your mouth, and blood, blood waiting to languish without anything else to happen and had to return after the bushes to wait, but you did not want Another attack and other leftovers that hurt you.
The seasons passed and went up and down hundreds of beautiful specimens, perhaps thousands of spectra that you invited me to be indifferent to yourself to reinforce your conviction that she would feel better and let you back in your own state of solitude, walking lurking, hoping to find someone who does not devour you. You remembered
allusions made you mate fairy who lived in the apartment with you: "Here are nice, as well as how to catch it dirty, make you feel pork and that's what I like" could not find the difference between a homosexual and a woman at the time to address the handsome boys, were the receptacles themselves all the fury and life lived between the legs of these beautiful behemoths. You
in the city of handsome: You are loaded with anemia, the hunger of days gone by undercooked pasta and long walks which afflicted your hooked and crooked legs. The seasons passed, and I posed as a train smash your body (the wait, those moments when you'd driven by the indifference of iron) and we suggest that the assault was equal to her professed compassion for you.
were heading the department in which they were sleeping. There find hundreds of copies scattered across the floor, a plate with scrambled egg remnants you forgot to wash that morning and she would tell you organize everything for a moment: All the near future was a virtuality.
station you came and you moved your head, she took your hand as if they were engaged. Not yet had the energy to say goodbye with the same ease with which he took off his clothes when left alone with nothing else to do.

Aszeta

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scarlet climbed the mountain with their backs a little heavy, a bit dry of words invisible and useless to us mired. We hope the fall of the moon vault to purge each of the unspeakable killings that we were dissecting. Then try to get into the field of absences, such as where the last remaining onomatopoeia redoubt where the bullets could cuddle a crying themselves threatening. We were, we knew that one had to leave. This was not to mediate a linear path of time, just a hop as the electron, and then he said nothing, took a leap that took him to another world map, a concavity racked conducive to their eyes. Now try to perpetrate something unique glimpse, appearing in chronic cryptic language in which his fatigue to become a star dressing over the stage where it came from, and not appearing to be rising, but seeing that piece of it which makes it persist. I can not deny the grief that seized me, ultimately, is my friend, that being that despite coming from afar I despised, or rather, I appreciated in my size, but crouched to listen, let me dance with her on the brink of endless steppe where reflux vertigo was a precarious nostalgia like mine, out of space and time as his. I was on the mountain scarlet, spotting something that soaks into the sky, that gift irreconcilable with the days and time as a message scattered out of nowhere and led nowhere. I can not deny it, my friend, and it weighs at the time of the game. Scarlet descended from the mountain, it ceased when I left the last step at the mercy forget the dry surface. Just left for the endless plain, I turned my face and I found a green thicket that stood as a sign that told me where my friend left it was the dense fog but a birthday in the days following without passing any, or perhaps the simple curvature where he is with his family in the place of no place to shrines or obituaries, and that messages are still floating between me and him. I can say no more than a greeting from the foreign land that racking waiting for a meeting, which I expect is enough for him to be.

Aszeta