Chronicle Sunday night and freaked 
The night is sad, the night is long, night betrays us all. That's because the night is honest and tells the truth, sometimes so forcefully that forces us to avoid it with corny games dependence on drinking whiskey just hand of seven friends who are not, or if evidence to ourselves (and all night) that we are alone in the world, okay, but drunk.
Night is a lie colored. The bars, a defense mechanism. Noise Viva, viva alcohol, loneliness and the starry night. Beautiful girls live. The topic. Viva piercing you hang the navel, the seam of your skirt, the joy of the mirrors. Sounds in the distance a bocinita. Ring. Today we are all sad: young people, students and students make social life in the clubs and who comes here is because it calls for war. ... Because this war is not a disk. Have you seen that blond girl? Did you see faces? Wait, do not go, I will pay you a fanta. Alone but drunk, what we said before. Here does not escape anyone. Even the piercing.
Girls. The girls are painted. The color of the grapes on the swing died of her eyes and ribs musical, stereo speakers with screaming, synchronized, which attract the attention of the weaknesses of the bar as they come out of the bathroom laughing and nudging the Nothing, that you go to know one friend unhappy, fat and equipment. Girls, what whores. Eyesores that come with them hold their vomitera. They have no heart. Them. Walking blind and premature menopausal those with access times, and hopefully, between drinks, uncle and uncle. Oh, girls fucking with girls. Girls are about indecent. Have you seen face? Alone but drunk, remember?, Fanta to pay him a girl. Living on the edge. What we were saying before.
are anorexic, pretty, girls, I like a lot, and studying all institutes, and smoke all very classy. Anorexia. Wow. Here is literature, for the anorexic, or applicant does not want to be good, to put it once, but his esquelatura, design itself, we suggest the harp violent teenage love and harmony. Few generations have been well primed and only the most sensitive minds of the generation of dog and hamburger turn against it, they discover that the feminine ideal is not in magazines or on runways, but within the same. The evil of the century, anorexia, is an evil soul, the answer he gives it to the body, suck the body's own body, sexual cleansing does not exclude sex.
you telling me seriously that does not want a fanta? Behind
are the masters. Puf. Some are ridiculous of course, of those who are clad in shirts teens and ask for all mixed drinks, and there are decent, too, of those looking over his glasses and smoke cigarettes want to be a metaphor for something, who knows what, and going out and stacked in a lonely cemetery. (Look, you have a metaphor.) Laugh, talk and applauds them, the gentlemen, with unique and intemperate applause. Plas. How funny that you said. What a joke that you've done. Say. Because this is a bar, a dive, and how much I bitch and that old, okay, what you tell me, what you want me, heaven, but here is coming to talk while drinking, to throw the slime that of to the side as we scratch nose and hysterical belch truths to the rhythm of the night. I is that I love and I hate drug addicts, you know, but finally finished watching the condescension past four in the morning. What complicates the exchange of winks to make their noses between curtains of smoke! One always wonders why more do not hide, and you always find yourself doing when they have to accelerate the eighth time he goes to the bathroom. We are back at it again, we know she can not lie, and between crowing and cackling nonsense stunned evening and hear about the vulgar context of opium that keeps. Football, Euro, Villa and its wonder. Ah, Spain, how good you came. I hereby make the chronicle of one, two, three and a thousand dirty napkins give you give you with football. It matters little economic slowdown (or crisis) that has the empty terraces, truckers strike or lack of sex in the marital bed magazines reported on inside pages. In Spain the only thing that matters is the van. You have to fuck. Outside, sounds an bocinita. Now it remains an ambulance.
girls are back like birds that have learned yet that can not fly, agarraditas of their children, most big men who can not smoke without staining. It is the night, Spain, is the day before yesterday cutreidad, bad taste, we. Playing music for old, distorted guitars petite distortion. Can not hear how she sings, how you say his name? Let, parakeets, I invite you to another fanta. Take A dance on the edge, dance like you know. Move the skeleton sad.
girls, anorexics. Let me close with them. Its thinness is dangerous, its thinness is lyrical: a response to the seven fat cows that we eat today in one piece. The definitive answer to the vulgarity of plump. It is to love dieting. Ay. And romantic vinegar took ill, and vinegar to make our new romance is nothing less than death. You understand that the adolescent resident in the slow suicide and beautiful, because they have very close childhood and puberty, that bulimia, and, especially, are very close even to parents, with their healthy sexuality and swine. All the girls are great except that poets make poetry. Anorexia, except a dangerous disease, is the reply we get from young to mature, a system against excessive presence, against the flesh shirt of the millennium. Just a lot less. Powder
be, but dust in love.
