The old man in the Ruana

I don’t know how I got here. Even without being drunk, I am very bad at physical activities. I

have never climbed and this is a very steep and high rock. Maybe someone brought me here,

someone climbed me here for the mere waste of drunkenness and the absurdity of the party, or

maybe I myself am a great climber when I get drunk and underestimate my own physical abilities. It

doesn’t matter. It’s a comfortable stone to sleep on and kept me warm during the night. Neither

does that matter. Cold, heat, hunger, misery, nightmares ... what I would like is to stop being

myself. To be someone else so then I can really live and convince myself that reality is something

real, that existence and its happenings are not just the product of my poor and deviant

imagination. That I would like. Because I’m one of those who think that truth has to be the multiple

that unleashes into the void, or that can turn it around, and there will be time

to explain myself better later on. While living, what corresponds is to learn to accept the conditions

that are imposed on existence without questioning or without stopping to reflect too much on it.

So, it’s not about complaining. In my particular case, I prefer not to complain, but I must admit that

I’m invaded by the typical bitterness of realizing that nothing has been resolved, of recognizing that

everything is more or less the same as it was before, before when? I don’t know, a little before, a

long before. Maybe with some subtle changes here and there, imperceptible in their great majority,

but as for the essentials nothing has changed. So my purpose, or rather my idiotic impulse, would

be to try to elucidate the causes before my voice goes out, or I feel too tired, or I have forgotten

them. Elucidate them to have something to distract me with while... nothing. Because all this took

me a little bit by surprise, even a bit horrified. These thoughts, these drops of sweat on my forehead

and neck, this rock at the summit of the mountain. A little bit amidst the confusion of my precarious
attempts to see through the dense fog that surrounds me and suffocates me, and with the vague

feeling of having deviated the road at some point, at the beginning, it seems to me. And it is possible

that I couldn’t have not deviated, that sooner or later, irremediably, I would have ended up just as

lost and dazed, on this same stone, invaded by this same drowsiness that eats everything from inside

and doesn’t stop making things something less ridiculous, nor less banal. For I was so terrified of

walking around knowing I could not understand, knowing that at any moment I could fall with no

reason that I preferred to throw myself once and for all into the void to disappear completely. But

the emptiness was everything so I did not "fall" in the strict sense of the expression and rather I

ended up floating in the midst of the sweat, the fatigue and the panting of this suffocating air in

which I now feel that I burn slowly. And maybe that's why I've decided to start telling this, which

maybe I shouldn’t even tell but I'll tell it anyways, just because, because of stubbornness, because I

started and I do not feel like stopping, because the sun has come out and the fog begins to dissipate,

allowing me to appreciate the breathtaking view of the sea-green mountains that piled on top of

each other until they lost themselves on the horizon; the trees that dot them like small green

freckles grouped in irregular spots, and the creeks of white water that bathe them and give the

appearance of drops of sweat or tears. And it occurs to me that eventually everything, the

mountains, the cows, the trees, the mine tunnels and the people below in town that wake up with

the first bursts of gunpowder, all of it would have to disappear just like the fog. Even the ideas. And

perhaps that's the reason why now there’s so little thinking and it’s becoming increasingly difficult

to distinguish one thing from another. The miners who enter and leave the tunnels in the mountains

in single lane; when they enter, they carry their empty carts, first one step and then another, their

foreheads crouched down, their eyes empty of meaning and then they leave the black hole with the

wagons full of mud, their arms stretched, their foreheads dotted with veins and the hope of carrying

there a tiny green pebble that satisfies a purpose and gives them enough oxygen to go back to
the dark tunnels during months, or years, or forever... Yes, I like the mine and I like the miners

because they think little and they die young. I like them because they go underground in search of

something useless that they rarely find and because they endure darkness, suffocation and

nonsense without questioning. And maybe at some point it was me miner myself but I could not

remember that right now, and what I do remember, or better, what I note, is that I live in a region

of steep, high mountains where you can stop at any point a or b or c and wherever you look, you

will have the sensation of seeing the entire world from the distance, with its tiny little houses stuck

in the hills and its tiny columns of smoke diffusing in the distant air. Mountains that in the

summer are covered by white clouds that look like snowy extensions of several kilometres of height

under the background of a marine blue sky, and which in the winter are swept by a grey haze that

impregnates everything with its smell of wet wood, preventing the sight of more than two meters

and producing the sensation that with only breathing the soul is drowning. I can say this and

perhaps a bit more that anyhow I won’t say just to limit myself to adding one additional

thing: that although I don’t completely understand why, I felt the greatest desires to throw myself

into boats from the peak of the rock in direction of one of those tunnels that pierce the mountains

and lose myself in their very deepest, where there’s no light, nor air, nor thoughts and no

words. And all of a sudden I realize that’s what I did and that I ended up hitting me hard against

the sand and limestone below the rock. And once down I ask myself why I had made such a stupid

decision, if up there I was so good and had such a beautiful view over the whole valley,

while from here I can see almost nothing and have caused me some strong pain in one of my limbs

even though I can’t tell which one. I see the pines and eucalyptus shaking with the sway of the

morning breeze and the dense bushes on either side of the road give me an impression of tranquillity

and freshness, and while I try to stand up after stumbling a couple of times, I raise an arm to check

it and then the other, look at the forearms, the humerus, move them circularly, the fibula, the
ankles, the hip, and take a deep breath. It seems that I did not break any bones, something

that should have its advantages. I hardly notice a few scrapes on the arms of which I dust and I do

the same with my hair. So, without having anything else to do, or to think, I decide to walk the path

to the left and then I realize that I was wrong in the evaluation of my bones because I'm

limping. Apparently, I did hurt my leg, the right one, nevertheless, the pain is bearable and I would

even say that pleasant. So to walk I have to use both hands to hold the femur of the damaged leg

while advancing with the good and then use them to lift and move the damaged one while

supporting the weight of my body in the good one. But some steps further I realize that this

operation is completely useless as it turns out that I'm not lame, or maybe I've always been, or that

I'm only when I’m aware of it, because when I stop thinking about my legs, I mean,

when I forget that I am walking, then I walk well. And my supposed lameness helps me remember

the many times I do activities that don’t have any purpose, not even to showing myself off because

so up here there’s no one else to see me. Just some carrion birds that in any case fly too high to be

able to notice me, even if it is the case that I’m falling dead and can serve them as a bitter piece of

aliment, something very doubtful, given the thorny texture of my skeleton and the covering of dirt

that shields my body. So if I limp, I don’t do that for any particular reason, and the same applies

to the vast majority of things I usually do or happen in my life. And as I walk, from below the

mountain I begin to hear the noise of the hubbub of the town, with which it occurs to me to orient

myself and also give a direction to my walk. Some dogs begin to appear and bark at me as I go down,

and I respond with stones on the head and ribs. I like that dry and covered growl that they emit just

at the moment of hitting them, and then they shoot out and shriek to reappear several paddocks

below and repeat the same operation. In general, they are small or medium sized dogs that don’t

scare me in the least. However, a very large one, almost the size of a wolf, appears at any moment

and starts to follow me with a stealthy and threatening aspect, so I decide that it is best not to hit
him and let him follow me. I suppose it's possible that he was interested in me because of my dress

or maybe the smell I exude. I'm wearing a brown wool ruana, green old pants, a short-brimmed hat

with a white beard from several years ago, or maybe decades. The ruana, or the grime, sometimes

produces scabies on my back that in any case happens quickly, because as I said, in my case it is to

fix attention on anything else to make that first thing disappear and stop worrying; the pain, the

anguish, the joy, even my body and existence; So scabies reappears when I think about it and

disappears again when I look at anything else. Anyway, it’s not important, nor is it to realize that

these are all my belongings, in addition to the metallic blue shoes I wear with fourteen buttonholes

between which two gray cords of polyester that now look blackish brown intersect. In any case,

what’s the purpose of inventorizing all my belongings? as, maybe in a moment one estimates that

has an A quantity of belongings to fulfil the functions T, V, W, and then, in another moment, one

has a B quantity to fulfil functions X, Y, Z, and in third moment, one doesn’t have anything, or has a

quantity A+B, or A-B, or A*B, there are many possibilities and one shouldn’t get exhausted with this

type of insignificance, because sometime calculations trick us and we have estimated our belongings

wrong and that saddens us, or makes us happy, depending on the type and direction of the mistake,

and the same happens to other elements such as trees, mountains, emerald mines, pebbles on the

road, dogs, parties, and nights, and days, and dawns, and words, things that can be piled up and

forgotten. And in the midst of these rambling tales, I cross immense and desolate pastures, with

one or two cows lying in the shade of a tree in the distance, creeks of black waters in the middle of

thick forests, and sheds where miles of chickens hoot softly while they sleep, or exists, just as

oneself, better than oneself. Thus, irremediably I arrive at the road that gives the outskirts of the

town where a group of military has installed a retainer for the walkers. The dog-wolf still follows me

when I go through the checkpoint and one of the soldiers, a boy of about eighteen or twenty years,

shouts at me "Stop!". As I do not know what to answer him, I do not say anything and I follow my
impassive path, and then the soldier shouts “Stop!" again, now pointing the rifle at me with some

nervousness. But if only I knew what to say when they point me with a rifle in my face, how simple

my existence would become! If only I had the interest, the energy or the ability to say something

that would leave him satisfied, he and all the people with whom I have crossed words, what

happiness would overflow in my soul! but nothing occurs to me other than growling almost

inaudibly while I frown and keep my sight at some point distant from the ground. The soldier then

shudders, becomes furious, grabs me violently from the ruana and takes me behind a banana tree

beside the road, and there he hits me with one of his feet in the knees to make me kneel. I don’t

understand his attitude very well, it is probable that my ragged appearance bothered him, or

perhaps my way of not expressing myself in a way he can understand; I have a vague memory of

having generated great annoyances by the way in which I organize the words inside my mind at the

moment of not saying them and letting them disappear as mere useless possibilities. Thus, before

my impassivity, the soldier orders me to put my hands on my head and I do it with great diligence

as I am seized by a sudden lustful joy of thinking that this may end right now, right here, and no

longer see me in the pitiful obligation to have to think in words that when someone says them finally

can understand. To my back, the soldier does not say anything anymore and I only hear him snorting

nervously. For my part, I close my eyes to wait for that last flash and that's when I get distracted by

some angry grunts and instinctively turn around to meet the gigantic dog hanging from the soldier's

neck, piercing the carotid and throwing it to the floor already flooded with blood, while he emits

snores like a sick pig and desperately tries to separate the immense jaws with his trembling hands

soaked in red liquid. A scene a bit grotesque and certainly uncomfortable to watch.

The story of Santiago

 Santiago woke up feeling that the earth had trembled. I was not sure. He hesitated a bit until

he finally grabbed the cell phone and checked some internet pages , but found no news or

confirmation of what happened .Then, still tucked in the blankets and with a slight gesture of

repulsion, put one of the videos of Daniela and masturbated eagerly. He ejaculated a few drops on

the sheets, went to the bathroom, unloaded a or my bowels, he brushed his teeth and saw his

reflection in the mirror. As usual, that image produced a bit of disgust. Then he went to the kitchen,

his mother had left papaya chopped with orange juice and parboiled eggs with rice. He heated the

eggs and the rice, and ate it all with appetite on the terrace of the house that faced the mountains. I

lived in a beautiful country house built in the traditional style of coffee farms,

with bamboo rails, hanging pots,orchids, and an extensive garden of tulips and abutilones where

they came to pollinate hummingbirds and different birds. From there I had an amazing view over

the valley.

That morning it was cool and clear weather. After breakfast, Santiago grabbed a book and sat

reading on a chair on the terrace while below, in the village, he began to hear the hubbub of the

festivities that had begun that day . After some minutes , Santiago heard someone open the

entrance gate and walked anxiously on the gravel road. His mother, when she found him on the

terrace, told him in a calm and nervous voice that her father had died. Santiago scratched his head,

turned to see the floor and then to his mother as he contracted his lips, but did not say anything. She

was an attractive, slender woman, with deep black eyes, straight hair, and about forty years

old. When she did not answer, she asked him how he felt and Santiago told him that it was a pity

that his father had died. His mom seemed confused at first but then made a gesture of

understanding. Understand what? Asked Santiago, if there really was nothing to understand. T his
time was his dad, but clearly could have been any other. A pity, no doubt, better that he had not

died, but that was not the case and it was clear that his father did not need , neither his

mother, nor anyone , not even himself, so that things would continue to be things, The parties that

weekend, and then the rest of life.

Santiago's parents had never lived together and that to him seemed the most logical and

natural. Even wanting, it was difficult to imagine a family life. It would be one of those excessively

uncomfortable things because they are both intimate and strange at the same time. Both his mother

and his father liked people so much that they were tied to only one person and that he thought was

right. In his head there simply was not the possibility of loving someone for a lifetime and sharing it

together. There was something in that idea that generated a morbid laugh , and nevertheless,

Santiago believed that his parents were good and nice people, at least physically,all his mother who

had just had several plastic surgery of breasts, buttocks and face .

While her mom He went to the kitchen to prepare coffee, Santiago thought how annoying it

was that his father had died just the day when the festivities began. He tried to

continue reading but could not concentrate. He knew that the schoolmates were going to be

drinking from that afternoon and that generated a bit of anguish for having to decide between going

to parties or staying at home. I felt that typical maluquera product of having to decide on the future,

not only the most immediate but also the most distant; What was he going to do that afternoon?

And next year? And when he got old? But, nothing came to mind, no image, no desire, no concrete

answer, not even in relation to what he would do that afternoon.

its Mom poured him the coffee, sat on the chair on the side and began to caress his

forearm. Santiago liked that feeling, it made him feel small chills running down his neck and back

that produced a deep state of introspection , and at that moment, he felt abysmally
exhausted. He thought that his sixteen years had already done everything that could be done in life,

which really was not much, and that from then on what followed were mere repetitions, one after

the other, disappointing him and bored him until he could not bear them. and end up killing

yourself. Internet, books , porn, cities, travel, love, for Santiago everything was the same , it was

nothing more than a dream that was forgotten in a few moments; an inexplicable hollow that ,

however, suffocated him . His dad was dead, the parties started that day and his mother was

scratching his forearm, that was all there was to know, that was the whole universe that he had

to know and he already knew him quite well . But what was more wearied him realize that he

was the center of this heinous and insignificant show, which was the main protagonist

and that there was no escape. Thus, he considered the possibility that reality was

a staging, partly comical and mediocre, partly tragic, with the sole purpose of overwhelming

him with the fallacy that he was alive. So well his life could not be worth living it because if

everything was in function of him then nothing had any real value , no achievement, no satisfaction

was full and objective, and the only true thing was the anguish he felt for being locked in that

perverse and predetermined game that he certainly did not even understand. Something not

worth such suffering.

While drinking coffee, Santiago became the one who was reading. His mother

looked indistinctly at the mountains, the fruit trees in the garden and sighed every so often. They

were like this for a few minutes, when she suddenly told him.

- "Son, in these moments we have to be with God. These are difficult moments in which

we may feel alone but he never abandons us, he is always with us. We have to accept

it in our hearts ... "

 Santiago looked at him, made a pitiful gesture and began to move his head slightly up and down

in approval. When he saw her, he thought he looked younger and more energetic . I mean, that's

how it always had been, only that now she was more concerned about her image and acting with

greater joy and optimism. She fixed her nails and hair, put on make-up and exercised every

day. Santiago thought that maybe it was something that had to do with the

new Christian church that he had begun to attend months ago and in which he was told that it was

necessary to get ready and be happy and beautiful for the Lord Jesus Christ. Although his mother

had invited him to church several times , Santiago had refused to go on the grounds that he

preferred to remain a Catholic in memory of his grandfather, which of course was no more than an

excuse for not having to go anywhere. , because in the end he did not go to mass either, nor did he

provoke the idea of going .

In general, the new church of his mother did not bother him, because Santiago thought

that beliefs in days and that kind of things were necessary for the vast majority of people; They had

to be of great help to soften the feeling of suffocation and vertigo. But what really repulsed

was having to make do and keep always smiling, friendly and well presented with so

many strangers. These things cost Santiago . For several months he had forgotten to bathe, he had

trouble choosing what clothes to wear, he was annoyed with perfumes, and in general , he looked

increasingly ugly and disheveled. His appearance, in short, did not fit the values and expectations of

his mother's church where besides the service, they did yoga and aerobic sessions, reigns, electronic

worship parties and things like that that did not go with their personality . Santiago knew that with

his attitude and appearance it would annoy people, that it would not fit, and it was difficult enough

to deal with the contempt he felt for himself, as if to add the dozens of strangers who would

approach him with the supposed intention of help.

 - "... and the truth is that I have been very worried about you, my son, and now with the

death of your father , I am even more worried ".

- "And why do you worry?"

- "Because I see you as distant, I see you more and more disheveled and neglected , son,

without strength, more and more gone, and I think that is because you need Jesus in

your life."

Santiago would have liked to tell him that he was right, that his life felt miserable, banal,

disheveled and certainly strange . To tell him that there was indeed a great void that generated an

immense despair, but that if the emptiness was true then it could also be that the despair had no

object and that maybe it was non-existent , or simply impossible to fill or make it disappear. Empty

the same vacuum. Santiago would have liked to say, "Mama, you're right! I want to believe! I want

to heal from all sin and be a servant of God and find salvation!", But that meant bathing and

grooming. to finish the book I was reading because I knew that once the parties started, the

drunkenness and the guava would not let him go back to reading until after the new year. So he

did not say anything , and his mother, after waiting a while, went to prepare some lunch with a

gesture of resignation and disguised contempt.

Diary of a webcamer
 Last night I had a dream in which I ran naked through a pine forest. Long hair me wrapped

around the abdomen and breasts, and caress me ba the buttocks . In the dream I was moving with

joy, almost levitating on afluffy floor of dry leaves. Some albino boys without hair,

fled terrified. However, I did not chase anyone in particular, but wandered without

direction. In my head is ba wearing a wreath and my face was a mixture between my face and a

kind of venadito. In the dream I was smiling, happy, while m ba anger at the sky and a light

beam and illuminates m ba my face as I had closed your eyes and breathe ba deeply. Then

I fixed ba a boy who has been re zagado, it seemed that he had hurt his leg and trying to hide from

me ba behind a not very thick pine. I when I ba with long strides about like ballet or

seen sitting l ed and leaning back against the trunk. The boythen forced her eyelids to

keep them closed and not see me while breathing heavily and ba terror. I tried to caress it with my

fingers, but the white boy made a great effort not to touch him. Then he gently massaged his skull

and I snuggled next to him, hugged him and whispered things in his ear . With his arms around his

neck and he began to kiss his face softly, while his white body was turning from white to a light

purple . In the dream my movements were light and my wailing passionate but almost

inaudible . After a few minutes, still holding him tightly , he directed his gaze to the satisfied sky ,

as in a state of trance. Then I would get lost in the boat as I walked slowly and stumbling, and behind

me was the already semi-projected corpse of the boy lying on the ground in a fetal position .

The youtuber series of Esteban

 Esteban saw with surprise that cute schoolgirl with slanted eyes and black hair that rode on top

of him. I did not remember his name. His hips hit him hard on an old, creaking metal bed , in the

middle of a room saturated with football equipment. There were flags, trophies, bugles, a signed

ball and framed photographs of squatting players. Without meaning to, Esteban thought again

about the web series he was doing and felt anxious and ashamed. Then he listened to that inner

voice that spoke to him with a hoarse and grave tone:

- What happened with us?...

- This is a crap ...

- It smells like urine ...

- ...

- We did not put a condom.

And he was overcome with a sense of panic that made him limp. Immediately the girl told him

sullenly;

- Oh !, no, no, no, what happened? ... and I was coming, dog.

- Hey, excuse me, it's that I got distracted a second.

...

The girl stepped aside reluctantly while Esteban helped her hand again. Lying on her back, the

schoolgirl opened her legs and began to masturbate with her eyes closed. It was hard to get an idea

of who or what he was thinking.

- Well, but make it fast that I want to come because I'm in a hurry and you have to go .
 Esteban quickly got a good enough erection. It was mounted, penetrated and when he was

beginning to excite her moans and wet and warm feeling her vagina, heard that someone opened

the double sheet of the apartment.

- Ay, jueputa, my boyfriend arrived, said the teenager with a gesture of malgenio.

They both got up and started looking for clothes. The girl barely managed to put on a thong and

a white cotton blouse, and went out to meet the groom in the room. He was a capo of one of the

most vivid football bars inthe city that had allegedly stabbed more than ten and killed

four . Esteban, meanwhile, was looking for his clothes with a certain calmness . He had found the

shirt, jacket, stockings and shoes, but the jean had got lost in the mess of football clothes and

blankets.

- Hello baby, why are you dressed like that? .

- Ay sweety, I had many ganitas and I started thinking about you ...

- Mhh, I see… and why did you lock the door?

- Well, because I was afraid that someone would get in there. Outside they were fighting

guys and I got scared ...

While they talked, the girl pulled the boyfriend and put him in the kitchen. Esteban, meanwhile,

walked on tiptoe and boxer to the door of the apartment because he finally could not find the pants.

Come, love, here on the inn that I am very upset .

E ntonces the boyfriend, who until that moment had left out confused by the excit ation

overplayed his girlfriend, she broke sharply with both arms to see directly in the eyes, and she, in a

moment of nervousness He noticed a point beyond the groom's shoulder . The Immediately he

turned around to find Esteban, who had barely crossed half of his body without trousers across the
threshold, and when he saw it, he was thrown at full speed screaming crap, while Esteban slammed

the door against the frame, He was going through a matera in the corridor and he was running away

terrified, although with a laugh that was mocking and funny .

Notes on the life of Samuel

I had seen women before , yes, once. A girl with her mom holding hands watching me from a

distance. They had a gesture of surprise and mockery. I think they were going somewhere far

away. Would have maybe, about three or four years and I was sitting on a rock next to a sandy road

watching them leave, which caused me some curiosity. It may be my first memory. Later I never saw

them again. Neither them nor any other woman, and it's been so long that I've even forgotten how

they are. I mean, I do an idea of his image, and I know also there, but I remember it somewhat

diffuse and not completely formed entirely in my head. The same thing happens to me with other

things. It's not something that worries me in any case, or at least that's how it seems to me. The

difficulty of remembering events or people, and making some sense out of them does not torment

me enough to generate any concern for me . After all, every day I get up and do certain things that

I mostly do not understand, and that's how it will be until the day I die; I'm almost sure of that.

What is difficult for me, however, are the memories that are a little more distant and, I would

say, significant. As the one that refers to the reason why I live in this city, to do how much and why;

even, to the fate of this bus and its origin. That's the kind of things I'm not very good at lately. Again,

I repeat, it's not something I think I should worry about because it's enough for me to know that I'm
here and that through the window I can see the last rays of sun that hit the rocky peaks of the hills

to the bottom , and that more here is the city that slides slowly, from right to left, in a series of

unpredictable starts and stops. It is enough for me to know that it impregnates me the sweaty

humor of the other bodies piled up and that largely breathed the air already expelled by their lungs.

However, they are all issues that I notice more as a product of reason than of any feeling that can

be associated with them, and perhaps that is why I do not keep them in my memory. Thus, it is not

so much of that life loses its purpose or meaning or direction, but lost his person, that is, to

me, to those who live, like a series of photographs confusingly concatenated but no one I saw them

and nobody who had taken them. Black images, confused with the great darkness that surrounds

them and that does not allow to know where they are and if they are, and can only be assumed with

the thought of some strange need of bad luck , although of course, there is no one to assume it, or

anyone who appears in them, and meets the obligation to try to see something for the

satisfaction of sight , maybe this being the only way. And maybe, what I mean is confusion as a

sound from which emerges an existence in which one comes in, squeezed, emptied and without

realizing it, a reality that exists precisely because of a sound that refers to the impossibility it your

understanding, as if instead of body and soul have a set of coatings wiring, extended and

useless , that do not transmit any sensation or perception, and that are also

refractory to climate and emotions. That's. And maybe that's why I forget so many things, for

example, to go traveling now in this bus full of men whose presence makes me conclude

that they are here and that they exist.

So in my case it happens that I think without really feeling, stories that come from somewhere

and settle in my head without generating sensations, and hence they come and come and appear

and disappear without apparent logic that I can discern. Stories that distract me perhaps for the sole

purpose of spending time, of being able to fill it in some way, while I disappear.
 Diary of a webcamer

Let's see, what I'm guiding ... getting drunk, Kierkegaard ... I like to read, yes, wasting time on

the Internet , obviously. At some point I liked playing soccer but I left it because the other girls

harassed me a lot . I like to get drunk despite the fact that the guava gives me hard and depressing,

although I think that I had already said ... I do not like the reality because in general it seems

deceptive, nor do I like the television, nor the youtubers. And I detest the webcamers. I like the

operated women who do not know very well if they are transsexual men who are operated on. I like

walking on the mountain at night when it's so cold that they freeze boogers and no longer

feels n limb, nor is he can think of nothing. In general, I do not like my family . What else ?,

nothing more , that. Oh, and I like to think that the idea of time as a progressive accumulation is a

fable for idiotic men , that the only existing time is the immediate one, the immediate sensation, the

waste, and that things do not exist in a specific order that goes adding, but in the superimposed

disorder of the moment, an inst before that is falling apart and that allows anything to be anything

else in a completely arbitrary, unjustifiable and cruel way .

What else?

Today in the afternoon, when I arrived from school I turned on the computer and started

watching videos . Someone had shared one of a pig that came to where a group of drunks who drank

dawned and began to dig among the bottles of beer that had watered on the floor. He grabbed

them with his nose, threw his head back and drank the cunchos in one gulp . Funny drunks laughed,
then you would throw one bottle full Marrano and grabbed her with his trunk and was drank white

background while everyone is cackled. S A few seconds later, they said: "Go fuck yourself, geez",

"you already embezzled us", "there's no more for you, you bastard", and they laughed again . The

pig snored or snarled or whatever the pigs do and looked at them sideways with suspicion but did

not leave. He was a giant , brownish pig , and he was not leaving , he wanted more beer. When I

saw it , the video had about three and a half million reproductions and I do not know how

many millions of likes. M and liked the video and I gave like. So the feeling is like that

of the Internet alcoholic pig , yes, that 's ... that's what I mean.

The old man of the Ruana

So there are many that I am not. I am not, for example, Bach, nor am I Schubert, nor am I Cioran,

nor Céline, nor Beckett, and not to be so at least gives me a small light of hope because thus, with

my miserable existence , I may be able to achieve a separation of things that they are to the extent

that they are valid, and I can confirm that there is indeed a light, a space for something, reality and I

inside . It is strange, because one realizes anything and then it is death. Something very brief, a blink.

Kneeling, with his hands over his crown and a single flash that drowns in the air. Some people may

stop for a moment to wonder if indeed they heard something and then continue as if such thing,

but for one, the end. Yes ... the unintelligible chaos, in the appearance of whatever, but what the

fuck , there are those who would not like, who would prefer a long life to old and a quiet death

surrounded by animals . They want that. Hard. I do not understand it. I mean, I do not know how
many years I've lived but at this point I think everything is absolutely too much. Breathing and

waking up every morning trying to remember a confusing yesterday so as to be remembered and

get an idea of a future that is even worse and more strange . Yes, yes, we should end this , jumping

out of a ravine or shooting yourself, but if there is no reason to live, there is no reason to kill yourself

either ; Besides, that would require a certain value that I do not have . P ues in my case, I'm kind of

contemplative and cowardly loose . I am And I may be wrong and in that second before the last one

ends up finding the meaning of everything, unraveling the tangle and letting the thought fade to

witness that total instar in which everything fits and things are . Maybe. I am not so stupid as to

believe that I have reached the final and final answer . No, not at all . further that there are things

that I like, no matter how strange or fanciful they seem . A ome dreams or removed fat grains I go

inside the ears.

But the fact is that I'm still here, in this town, which has nothing special that is worth

describing now that I'm walking through its streets and the dog is next to me with its

muzzle daubed with blood , but in any case I will describe . A town stuck in the middle of a

mountain , which in turn is surrounded by other mountains that can be seen from any corner, green

and immense, and they trap it, and I would even say that they threaten to bury it . In three directions

you have to climb incline and in the fourth you go down to a river of gray and marshmallow waters,

and from there you have to go back up . Thus, at any time or na avalanche you can come up and

bury all several kilometers underground. You would see then the cement streets, narrow and

broken, the little houses piled in brick and zinc, the park with its five palm trees and the white and

moldy church with a single tower with that little statue of Jesus trying to hug someone, the air , to

nothing, everything buried underground. Anyway. No matter. Front People and shops are getting

ready for something. Wash the floors and shake the rugs. The jets of soapy water run down to the

platforms and sewers, and the shelves are full of clothes, hats, fabrics, canned food, brandy and
beer. A few meters down there are some black plastic awnings in which they offer

vegetables , fruits and chickens, crowded with people walking with wicker baskets on their

forearms. It is a hot climate that is accentuated by the heaviness of my ruana and I sweat like a pig .

Thus, I am invaded by the feeling of being contaminating everything with my presence and it occurs

to me that if that is the case , it is a very subtle type of contamination because nobody seems realize.

In any case, the idea of contamination is not new to me, and in fact, I raise it every time I'm among

some crowd and maybe that's why I usually avoid them and detest them. Something that has to do

with them, I suppose. With his way of being more agile, more fluid and his purposes more

clearly predetermined. They go from a point A to a point B and they do it for some reason. While I

... me ?, I have no idea , and I have nothing to do either . I simply become obsessed with the thought

and its strange dynamics in such a way that I never reach any conclusion that allows

me certain clarity, feeling absolutely dazed, I think, more than with people, with situations and

their incomprehensible functioning . An obsession that is always in me, maybe with the intention of

making me understand, although always unsuccessfully, why those movements, those smells, those

clothes and those laughter , understand what I have to do here, in between of this something that

is about to begin and that is already happening and that somehow has already ended.

With the dog we arrive at a large and rectangular building that occupies one of the blocks that

surround the palm tree park of the town and in whose facade you can see multiple arched balconies

and replicas of small Ionic columns. It is a building of gold and silver color on the edges and gutters,

with a message in the upper part of the main arch that says in metal letters "City Hall". So I

realize that I have been hungry for several hours and it occurs to me that maybe there I can get

something to eat, for me, because the dog has already eaten more than enough. Inside the building

we walk through corridors and stairs of red tiles that smell like wax. So we come to a corner of the

upper floor and we get into a large office that has a plaque that says "Municipal Dispatch". In the
office there are painted pictures of the village and surrounding mountains, a long green cushioned

sofa, a rectangular glass table and a wooden desk with a padded wheelchair. I sit on the couch and

suddenly a guy appears more older than me and bald, with a stack of papers that I think he wants

me to sign. I do it quickly and a little surprised to disguise and not cause displeasure, just reading

the titles of some of the papers that say things like "Public contracting ... ", "Honorable mention for

contractors ... ", "Funds for the committee of fairs and festivals ... "," M aintenance network ... ","

Payroll of hospital rural school ... "among other things that I will diligently signing . But that 's me

happy It is that almost immediately the old man appears with a bottle of whiskey to start drinking

fervently because I have thirst and also because it has brought me some pies that are very good. So,

while I eat and drink, I sign non-stop, while people of humble appearance come to the office , some

almost as ragged as me, who look out the doorframe and enter the office with their hands crossed

and muddy ground . H acen a bow, approach at a distance of a few meters and then tell me

something I do not understand but what I respond with grunts and a soft applause That seems to

leave them very satisfied and happy. Then we are all happy. That is all.

So I wonder if this is indeed my work, a job I have done for a long time and that I have chosen

myself, or if I am simply doing it by mere chance , product of hunger and ignorance ; a feeling that ,

by the way, always accompanies me with respect to all my movements, that if it depended on

me and if I were someone consistent and resolute, I would prefer never to have done, never, to

have remained solitary and still in that summit , perhaps just wallowing in the cold wind of the night,

the rays of the sunset and the mist of the dawns. But it happened that I fell, or I threw myself away,

and that consequently I am an imbecile who does not know what he is doing, and also, when he

does something, he does what he does not want, because by changing the loneliness and beautiful

repetition of the activities without way up there , by the series of strange events and

purposeful s useless is down here , I made the worst mistake of my life, or at least today, that in any
case it does not matter because, to me, it's enough to sleep a little to forget about this kind of

transcendental things; and I usually go to sleep often.

The history of Santiago

From the terrace of the house, Santiago could hear the car of the loudspeaker that some

kilometers below recited the programming of the parties. It was an announcement in a hurried and

screaming voice, which due to the distance was heard drowned and almost dreamlike. The

announcement was accompanied by a background pasodoble and some tropical rhythms. After

lunch, his mother asked him if he wanted to go to see the carriages of the aguinaldos but Santiago

told him that he preferred to stay at home reading. She then went into a bad mood to nap .

Santiago turned to lock himself in his room to masturbate once more. That caused

great annoyances to him but it was something that, somehow, had become a kind of obligation that

could not stop fulfilling . In doing so, recently had a couple of tears in the foreskin that were getting

infected by the lack of bathroom. In those days, the first video of Daniela I was obsessed and did not

really know the reason why, after all, when what she did had not yet become the celebrity who all

worshiped in the village. The image was of a very poor quality and in addition, there were many

other more recent and striking videos of her, that he had available both on the internet and in the

memory of his cell phone.

 The first thing that appeared in the video was a close-up of his black and slanted eyes towards

the ends, his thick nose, the holes in his cheeks, his wavy black hair, and his lips painted incipiently

red. There was something childlike beauty on his face, perhaps in the style of some cartoon, both

innocent and flirtatious. It was like the caricature of a thirteen-year-old teenager with long hair,

broad hips and a thick nose , who masturbated in her little school room to the rhythm of

reggaeton. In front of the camera appeared in the foreground with a small black bra, and in the

background you could see a simple bed with a pink and disheveled bedspread, some Stuffed

animals, the wooden door and hung there , his school bag on a hook . Daniela e stretched her arm,

framed a thigh and then the ass on the side, lifting and shaking to the beat of the music. Then he

would bring the cell phone to his face, smile, bite his lip, make a painful gesture and send a kiss with

his eyes closed as he re-framed his ass, shaking it for a few seconds more. D fter leaving the cell on

a table and began to dance a few steps away. It was turned his back to the camera, stop the ass

and is so slapped with both hands; then she opened her buttocks and let her long hair fall in the

middle. A couple of times like this, whipping her head forward, she turned around to look sideways,

bit her lip, slapped and opened her buttocks, whipped her head back and let her hair fall over her

anus. A below average turned around and left in front of the camera, sucking fingers, put one leg

over the table and began to massage; first with the buds of the four long fingers and then tucking

them in completely. Every time he put them in he moaned, stretched his legs and tensed his muscles

as if to better accommodate the penetration of his hand. At that time he said in a broken and

whispering voice, "how rich", he got deeper into his fingers, he writhed, he bit his lip, and then he

took out his fingers, sucked them and put them back in, saying "come and I put it in, my love ", a

pause," ayhh ", and then" how delicious! ". He lowered the leg of the table, let his hair fall over his

right shoulder and continued to shake his shoulders and hips, making small circles with his forearms

and hands, and pulling the waist gently forward to the rhythm of the music. Between his open legs
he could see the rough edge of his vaginite Teenager, while holding her breasts over her bra,

squeezed them and continued dancing.

Towards the end of the video he opened his mouth, showed his tongue and suckled his fingers

with gluttony to get selos faster and harder, while with the other hand he pulled his hair and made

a gesture by squinting his eyes. the suffering, the excitement and the discomfort . And it was is t or

last, is t e gesture that closed the video perhaps the main reason that haunted Santiago. A confused

and frightened gesture that made her think about Daniela's inability to understand what she was

doing with her fingers inside the vagina, in front of that cell phone camera, in that tiny room of hers.

It was a gesture of shyness and of being lost within herself, violating herself for an anonymous

audience that maybe did not have the least interest to see her, and that was when Santiago came.

The other videos of his companions could not be compared because in the opinion of Santiago

they always showed a flat pleasure and an overactive exhibitionist eagerness. The moans during the

orgasms seemed too false and the coarse and dirty , mere repetitions of reggaeton songs. On the

other hand, in that first Daniela video, the special was precisely the doubt, the confusion, and hence,

the sincerity that he found. Among other things because she had not raised it for anyone in

particular because she had no boyfriend then , and had wanted to gain popularity , It was clear that

I would have had to do something much more risky and viral. Santiago was curious about Daniela's

motives and that ignorance excited him in a way that he himself did not understand.

He had to go through the bathroom to splash a little water on his face to cool off the sweat that

was the effort of masturbating and then returned to the terrace to read. There was a cool breeze

from the countryside. The sun beat behind the house, painting the mountain in front of a light

orange, which contrasted with the bright white of the clouds and the azure blue of the sky. In the

village you could hear the noise of gunpowder and the music of the parties. Occasionally, laughter
and distant cries would also be heard brought by the wind. Once the book was finished, Santiago

felt the pleasure of finishing something, and he wondered if happiness had anything to do with the

end of things, that is, death. That idea irritated him a little because that would mean that everything

that was worthwhile in life was worth it as it simply ceased to exist.

Diary of a webcamer: the desvirgue challenge

That men are few morons that's nothing new. They are little animals behind a pair of tits and an

ass , and that has always been known, what I was looking for, however, and perhaps without

realizing it at the beginning, it was the limits, yes, because I lived very bored and I wanted

to aber How far could the stupidity anima lesca go, to what extreme level they could reach for some

tits ... For my part, I have always been very beautiful , since I remember they watched me with a

look of being impressed and stunned, and they sighed, and wanted to be very close to me and please

me.

But , or, really, I started out of boredom. I mean, I do not think I need to know much more about

the world than someone who lives somewhere a little more sophisticated could know, and I knew,

for example, that the issue of my beauty was something that would eventually wither , that is to

say, I was going to end up married with some boy from the town and I was going to keep pretty and

maybe have kids and that, and I was going to take them to the park to eat ice cream, but then

nothing more. And it was good For me it was fine, at least when I thought about it at an age of twelve

or fourteen years. However, we live on the internet and virality, and what else can I say ?, I'm
beautiful, that men and women and in general, human beings of any category go crazy with my

photos in thong or schoolgirl skirt.

But I've never been an idiot, and I repeat it because with a beauty like mine it was very easy to

fall into that temptation. After all, those who live best are them, right? ... Anyway, around sixteen

or seventeen I was no longer interested in becoming a model, or getting involved with someone

famous, or become a recognized actress of television and perhaps movies ... what can I say ... I was

not interested in money, nor travel, nor fame, nor food, nor exercise, nor god, nor anything. Since

then I lived bored but it was not a boredom of the depressive type but rather the one that makes

you sleepy, so I did not feel like leaving the town, or even from my house. So, what I deduced was

that maybe I could break down in the limits, and what I had most at hand was my own beauty, well,

that's it. That and the internet.Although never in a sadistic way, but rather as with a scientific

intention, or even, philosophical.

The truth never I thought that it was going to arrive until this point, although the truth I never

thought, nor I have thought, that it was going to arrive at no point, nor nothing by that style of the

things . I just found it funny , sometimes, and not always, and also that at that time at school many

people did it too , that masturbate webcam . Well at the beginning, because of course after a couple

of weeks I got bored. So yes, I suppose it was because I had nothing else to do and

fashion. further that at first I was entertained with the likes and what people said ... that is to say,

to me the fame and the silver did not matter to me, nor do I care , but, as I said, the limits ... to

experiment with my body and the image, and make a speci c of amateur pornographic art, at least

at the beginning, because the concept was changing and I realize that I do care about one

thing. Anyway. No matter.

 They were like three million subscribers in the first three days. Something like that. Almost every

country in the world.

Now my channel is the second largest on the internet, and I've never promoted it physically, or

anything like that. I have not left town, or anything like that. Although it is true that I can not go out

to the street either ... One of the first, although not, not so much of the first ones or of the middle

ones but like that of the middle ones, between the middle ones and the first ones, of the videos

what I did and what is worth saying something, although for no reason in particular worthwhile, or

that I can think of to justify myself, was that of the deflower challenge . Well, you can imagine, I

made an online call to see the children who were virgins of the town and the region and that, and

then, I defused them collectively. I think that for that video even I was a virgin. Then it was a double

deflower, haha, or something like that. But hey, clearly that is not the highlight of the

video but what I managed to discover about him why his obsession with sex, when that is something

that really is not a big thing ... that is, even sex disappoints right? , let's see, I will not deny that

sometimes it can be delicious and that it can become the most delicious thing you ever feel, but

even orgasms vanish in the middle of the sheets, do not you? vague, which in any case is more of a

fantasy and that's it. Then, again, what I discovered was nothing ... or in other words, indifference

and again boredom boys ... It is to say, with this video I managed to understand

that the madness (because I like more than twenty - eight thousand entries from all over the

country and in just one day call) for a girl Virgin is stupid like the rest ...

So many have told me that I am the most beautiful and irresistible being that they have

ever witnessed in their lives, I think I already said it, and that my beauty is something sublime and

radically sa lvaje that generates a gradual and growing animal uncontrol ... However, for my part,

I produce a certain repulsion examine me carefully , it is perhaps a little sad, because that's the only
feeling I have felt sincerely , that is deeply because of rest, beyond the repulsion, is indifference and

boredom ... Yes. Finally, I made the children form a row shoulder to shoulder and there were from

thirteen to one that I think was about thirty eight ... and then I was fourteen, I think ... and I looked

at their faces while brushing them with my nails, her bellies gently tensed while she was dressed in

the skirt of a sexy video game kung fu fighter ... and I examined their faces but could not see

anything, in the terror of their most extreme orgasm and in the fulfillment of their most perverse

desire, I could never see anything. Like a building that takes many years to build and then ends and

then the Christmas lights are appearing and turning on and off in the windows and are violet or

yellow or purple or red or green, and then Christmas is over . Something that one ultimately does

not realize.

Critics said that what I was doing was a kind of subversion of collegiate amateur pornography

and that I managed to influence the new generations of webcamers that would become the great

leaders of tomorrow and for that reason would have a more critical

and sophisticated thinking Regarding yourself , pleasure and life , and then you would make the

world a better place . That is to say, in my videos , the critics said, I gave a new conception to

the collegiate amateur pornography and changing it transformed the way of thinking

of several generations and that's why they paid me (I think they still do) a lot of money, but what I

could never see, and this is what I wanted to highlight, it was something human in the half-closed

eyes of those wild and aberrant orgasms, I never saw anything that could indicate, for example, a

soul or a spirit, but simply were like the eyes of cattle. Empty of meaning and without a fixed point

to which they were heading. That's how men were.

Now I do not go publicly to the street, that would create chaos again and I do not want that

chaos.
 The youtuber series of Esteban

Esteban pedaled without pants on his phosphorescent green fixie bike through the destroyed

streets of the city. In a corner, a pair of bus drivers fought cross-bites for a crash. To an adult

woman, a construction worker would slap her on the buttocks while another twenty would squeal

her morbidly . Two guys on a motorcycle stole a schoolgirl's suitcase while they pointed a nine-

millimeter pistol at him . It was beginning to rain and the afternoon light, through the clouds and

the light , produced an atmosphere of one color oxidized ocher. The streets were crowded with

traffic, holes, garbage and destitute drug addicts. Esteban looked uncomfortable, although more

than what happened around him, for something that came from inside. Then he heard again that

voice that spoke to him in his head .

Pff ... Beckett for youtuber s. Only an imbecile could think of something like this ... It would have

been better to have left this trap when we could.

...

You are destroying us , Esteban .

...

¿ And why ?, if there is no need ... And to we were stars before ... People loved us ... The

teenagers were getting wet for us ...

 ... they asked us for selfies ...

But you sent everything to hell.

Because it was crap! - Santiago shouted - because it was a shitty life !, and he was blown!, And he

could not take it anymore. Y it was then that you came to fuck me even more the life .

But if I am the only thing that saves you , Esteban ...

I am the only one who is always with you always .

He had to stop on a platform because the voice distracted him and he was almost hit by

a bus . He was stuck under the ledge of an abandoned house and at that moment he felt that the

cell phone was vibrating in his jacket. I answer already to the other side of the telephone, Sajai spoke

to him.

- Esteban, queer !, where the fuck are you ?! We've been waiting for you for more than an hour!

He slapped his forehead and closed his eyes.

- Shit! ... Sajai, what a pity! ... I just had a problem with the bike ...

- Marica !, do you think me an idiot? This shit can not go on like that! To good, he can not - he

said.
 - I know, forgive me, Saj ... but it 's just that ... I do not know what happens to me , really .

- No, shit, Esteban! You're coming right here! - He said a scream and then hung up.

Esteban began to pedal at full speed while insulting himself internally, although he did not know

who he was insulting, whether to himself or to the voice, and he did not really know who was the

one who insulted, if the voice or was he . Half an hour later, he arrived at a winery in a lone sector of

the city. He chained the bicycle of eagerness to a lamppost and walked with discomfort; The lack of

trousers had produced some blisters in his crotch due to the rubbing with the saddle. Inside, the

warehouse looked precarious and dark. There they were filming the scenes for the youtubers

contest. Esteban went to the cameras where he met Sajai, who greeted him with a rage gesture.

- Saj, really apologize, is that I had some problems .

- Old man , you know what? Then we talk. I'd better start with this sissy now, Sajai replied, trying

to control her anger.

- Well, yes, all right, but excuse me ...

- Hey fagot, what you why he 's in his underwear?

- It's a very pendeja story, then I'll tell you , Saj.

In front of the cameras he found three girls sitting on the floor.

They had operated on their tits and their asses exaggeratedly , almost in a monstrous way . They

wore reggaeton caps, tight, low-cut blouses, and pastel-colored accheteros. The girls looked pale

and sweaty, as if they were about to be broken by some drug overdose. Immediately,

however, Esteban put them into action, turned on the lights, and enlisted the scene with the

cameraman and the soundman, giving energetic instructions.

 - How are you doing, all right? Well, we're a bit hung up on time, and that's why today we have

to get all the material for the first chapter, right? Only this time I wanted a way to act a little more

visceral ... The last time the scenes were not very intense and we have to do everything much more

sordid and more exaggerated, ready?

The girls nodded reluctantly and went to locate in their respective places.

Notes on the life of Samuel

And while I do not remember all the stories, yes me I usually have constantly, do not know

whether some order in specific or how, it may, at some point noticed something, or heard

something, or live something and then I disillusion inevitably all the rest of things, of which

it happens , besides, that I forgot about the great majority of them, something that I think I had

already said . The analogy would be to jump over a cliff without realizing there was one and

simply find yourself falling suddenly , and never again be able to regain control of the limbs. but

with the conscience intact and even more acute than in the instant before the fall. So

reality I insufficient and the whole world, with all its objects , a rough and place unbearably

boring me forces to look nowhere, but not at any anything but one of which can take a certain kind

of beauty, truth poetic effect that I find only swimming in the depths of the dark sea that is the ma

no lungs, or members, a soul that does not know how to swim and that seeks without knowing how

to look, or have searched before, to find, or find very little and get lost even worse, idea after idea In

complete silence, letting them flow, to the depths, to the last bit of the pit marina and then
to the back and did not kill himself because he was dead. Dead. Everyone. The many that I am. The

all that I am. Everything I am. And so get to the end of each sensation and pierce it, t ocar to the

ultimate consequences and possibilities, the tubular gray pasta of the red bus, the bodies of the

men traveling with me, the glass windows, the rocky hills in the background with the look, and

perceive each attribute, unraveling, shredding, making them implode, smelling them until they no

longer smell, and think them until they disappear, or that their existence becomes unreal . To reach

poetry , or the ultimate consequence of each thing, ceasing to be to live in it. A more lost night, or

a morning, or a whole day, whatever it is, it does not matter what is lost but the emptiness left

behind, the space occupied before. Back pain and the legs to wear collared so long standing,

and one dream that sleep is not satisfied.

Promotional video of the holidays

A digitally diagrammed DJ console that rotates on its own axis. The animated voice of a young

narrator who says: "we celebrate the end of the year as it should be ... toooooors and artists in

the Valley!" The sound of a trumpet playing a pasodoble. A sepia-colored poster with red and blue

letters, and superimposed photos of the town's stone church, orchestras and a bullfighter displaying

an ear cut in his hand and looking at the horizon. " The traditional fairs and festivals of the Valley

return. Four in the morning, musical dawn ... "A navy blue sculpture of several peasants, men and

women, with baskets and sacks on their backs, behind a tractor," five in the morning: swine fair; six

in the morning: livestock fair; eleven in the morning: ride through the main streets of the
municipality . Some horsemen on their horses and mules raising their white hats in greeting, in the

background the music of the Wagner Nibelungs sounds. " Great popular verbena with Cheo Perrata

and the Tigrillos del Condado ". Images of singers with incipient mustaches, Mexican hats and

ostentatious metallic buckles on their belts. Northern music sounds "And let life live! One in the

afternoon: traditional donkey race, two in the afternoon: Magaly Quimera and her ranchera band ";

teenage singer with braces, dressed in mariachi and carrying an accordion with difficulty. " Three in

the afternoon, comic-bullfighting spectacle: bullfighting marvels and their bullfighters dwarfs, and

in the interim, the popular voice of 'Marcelita' with her success, <Que sura, que supe y que

llore>. Four in the afternoon. Monumental bullfight of bullfighting in the temporary bullring 'San

Sebastián'; Four powerful bulls of pure breed to death of the cattle ranch 'Churro y Viejo' for the

biggest bullfighting figures. The great rejoneador 'Sebastián El Caballero' with his stable of beautiful

Spanish-Arab horses. "They sound pasodobles and more tropical music. " Seven of the night:

presentation of the popular orchestra 'Los lizards', with its success <Return soon that I do not live

without you>. Orchestra 'La flare';and for the first time in the Valley, 'Sebastián Ro Meo and his

Alegres del Vallenato. Twelve in the evening, Car Audio Girls and strip show in the market

square. And directly from Valledupar, 'Rolando and the apotheosis of the vallenato' with his great

success <You are a crazy cart that crashes with anyone> ". In the last shot the mayor's picture

appears with a ruana , kneeling and hugging a school girl of about seven years while a voice in

a serious tone says : " because progress must continue ". In the background, more girls are seen

with a gesture of terror.

The old man of the Ruana

 Hours later, the bald old man from the office escorts me out of that building that was already

suffocating me with its smell of floor wax and office worker's cardboard folders. Then I decide to

review my possessions again. Apparently, everything is in order except the dog, which despite not

being properly mine, is no longer by my side. It's strange, I do not like dogs , however, I feel that

eventually would have been able to catch some love . But in general I am one of those who think it

is better to walk with fewer things to go lighter, which undoubtedly represents multiple advantages

compared to walking with a large number of objects and the corresponding effort ofload them.

Advantages, for example, to get away without caring if one understands why one is escaping, or if

there is indeed a reason to escape . Well, I am one of those who thinks that it is always good to have

the possibility of escaping even when it is something that does not exist . It is a kind

of volatile character , I admit it, and so, every time I give less account, that is, I can explain less, why

I think what I think and feel what I feel, and I do not think there is any use in hiding it from no one.

In the end because I think that whatever I do, or whatever I say, everything results more or less in

the same result, which is uncertainty and confusion. And it is possible that this same reason, I have

never been able to clearly differentiate the good from the bad, insofar as those values have not

been made to my measure, resulting in a greater probability of doing something good thinking that

it was bad or something bad thinking that it was well and ending up much worse than I was before,

without foreseeing it and not even realizing that, for example, I am falling into the dark pit of a mine

until the moment when I have already broken against the bottom and things have remained in that

state of painless suspension in which one says desperate "shit, shit !, I shit !", but not before, never

before, which has nothing particular or strange, fall even deeper , in an even more rotten place. And

so, crossing the park, I notice that in the town it is getting dark ; the children run around volcanoes

of gunpowder that drip white and gold sparks a couple of meters high. On the doors of the shops
the speakers resonate with happy songs while the families form rounds with bottles and baskets,

and they drink and laugh as they please. The bald old man and I walked towards a group of drunks

in a canteen on the other side of the park. There I observe those emaciated types who exhibit their

tanned hands , and their mustaches and helmets smeared with mud. And I feel that there is a

pleasant climate that In any case I do not enjoy it because I would not have to do it; the weather is

not something that excites me and in my case I tend to prefer the cold and the fog , before this fresh

wind and this clear sky that does not allow to hide the madness and forces to feel happy and

friendly .

From the canteen, the old bartender takes out one beer after another and mechanically

distributes them among the drunks who are sitting on the platform. She does not say anything. That

is, n adie asks for nothing and she does not offer anything, but simply fulfills the obligation to

distribute in front of the same adobe house, to the same characters , year after year, without dying,

or rejuvenates, or changes of eye color, but just living in a soporific state of eternal repetition . For

its part, the canteen inside is a tall, narrow place and dark . On the left is a urinal of moldy tiles with

a rusty key that spits drops of rotten air . The floor is covered with a rough orange stucco and the

walls are scarred, as if hundreds of gigantic insects have invaded them . Maybe. There is a smell of

moisture and to adobe powder. There are three rectangular wooden tables with their

corresponding seats and a table parallel to the wall on the right on some blocks to sit on. The single

yellowish light bulb hangs full of cobwebs on the counter that displays bottles of whiskey and old

brandy. The bartender has wavy hair, gray mustaches and wart-splattered skin, and yet she is almost

out of reach because of the speed at which she moves from one side to the other to deliver the full

bottles and collect the empty ones. The drunks barely notice when they already have a new bottle

gripped between the forearm and chest, added to the other two in each hand. The drinking

procedure is not particularly complex, nor lyrical as to stop to describe it. Neither do the
conversations, which basically consist of grabbing the bottle and putting it in your mouth and

drinking and laughing, and drinking again , and laughing again . A red car full of speakers is parked

in front of the bar and puts a song that explodes throughout the town and says:

Do not break your heart,

so that it does not go bad
a disgusting like me
can become criminal
although you forgot
It was intentional.

The song ends and the car guy comes back and puts it on again. For my part, I begin to enjoy the

atmosphere and the music because it makes me feel intimidated and reasonably confused. I am

invaded by that strange fear at the level of the diaphragm that tickles and a feeling of

suffocation , but fear of what ?, I ask, to life, to disappear without having understood what was to

have appeared . And I notice l I drunks who are going gathering around the car while buffeted her

hips in an attempt to dance to the music. They smile and belch, and they grope morbidly with their

handcuffs, and I want to join them but I do not finish convincing myself because I feel a rejection

difficult to explain . They sing loudly with their husky voices:

♫ Do not break your heart

because I can get angry
you are not alone because I
I will always defend you
although you do not want

come back to see ♫

So, I get carried away by the noise and indeed I start humming the song and shake your knees

and think of Schubert , that long ago that I do not listen , and her beautiful quartets and quintets for
strings that if he s compared to this Canteen music has its particular effects that would be

worth mentioning because they produce a certain hypocritical joy, as if the drunks were dressed in

gala costumes, smelling of fine perfumes and gathered in a Viennese salon in the early nineteen ,

smiling and satisfied with themselves, but inside happening something else,

the false melancholy that invades everything, of course, complicated to explain because in principle

you do not know that you have , that you are there, and that you are doing more and more

energetic, and aggressive and uncontrollable , and then it becomes a kind of anger crossed by the

misery of knowing that there is no sane answer, but only lack of control. The accordions resound,

the bass , and immediately the voice that screams " how expensive I am paying, the betrayed ... ",

In a lamenting and shrill tone in which the doubt does not exist and there is nothing to feel because

its effect is immediate and predetermined with respect to the same falsehood that the experience

of reality supposes that the drunks do not worry at all .

While Schubert is absolutely the opposite, nothing is absolved, because nothing does, and that just

reveals itself . That is, as if the drunks came out through a side door of the beautiful hall lit with

chandeliers and decorated with neoclassical marble statues and

red and padded carpets , towards the market square of the town full of bundles of potatoes, to see

on the stage more drunks jumping and playing their accordions and basses, but suddenly everything

is in the most absolute stillness and silence; the place that empties completely , the musicians that

disappear and one that is completely alone in the middle of the bundles , with the light of the round

reflectors of the ceiling just above , smelling of onion and sweat of several days of work in the field,

and lost not even in one's conscience but in the depths of the most stifling feeling of strangeness

and subtle pain because of the effort that the heart makes to keep beating without a purpose, to

beat just by beating, the throat plugged by a cluster of gargles and the deepest sense of
confusion regarding the fact of thinking ideas that never lead to satisfactory explanations,

without anything that distracts the mind or makes noise during the horrible and mute existence.

♫ If you walk with another

I congratulate you
I do not love you
for a ratic or
that are not bad

your intentions ... ♫

The history of Santiago

Santiago then came up with a list. For him , at least, there was the literature, there were the

books. There was the blues, the brandy, and the beer that he could no longer drink for

antidepressants. His mother was there, although more or less, because most of the time she was

not there . His dad was gone, he was dead. God was there, although after thinking it better he

concluded that given the indeterminate and coarse behavior of things most likely It was not there.

Nothing else. There were the mountains, with their beautiful trees and streams, their mother's

garden, Daniela's videos. There was also anguish. Oh, and there was the decision to leave or not to

the parties, a decision like any other, unimportant, but still, a decision that had to be made. Staying

in the house involved masturbating, with the corresponding pain that it would produce , while going

out meant seeing people and eventually having to talk to them. Santiago in general preferred to

masturbate than to talk to people, however, he recognized that in the house he would eventually

get bored, that outside the same , he was going to be bored, that anywhere and in all ways he would
get bored. But it was a fact that the parties were only held once a year, which were the only

interesting thing that happened in the town and that also constituted the perfect excuse to get

drunk until losing consciousness, and that for Santiago, was one of the few sojourns in which I could

think .

She decided then to go out of her mind to search her room for some clothes. There, the

windows were covered with several layers of black and cardboard bags. Lately he did not even turn

on the light bulbs anymore and to move he did it with the light of his cell phone or simply blindly. It

was a spacious and spacious room, and in the middle of the darkness, one could see the disorder of

clothes, books and papers scattered everywhere . In one of the walls you could see multiple medals

and diplomas , and just below, trophies accumulated in various sports competitions were

accumulated . I also had a large library, rustic and thick wood, stuffed with hardback books and

large special editions. In another of the wall is , there were hanging pictures of Schubert, Céline,

Beckett and Bach. And on the left side, on a sophisticated glass desk, was a next-generation iMac

and a powdered MacBook Air.

Santiago quickly grabbed the first jean he found and put it on with a blue jacket with a hood

that was on the bed. Then he went to his mom's room. He noticed his distracted look on the

television without noticing what they were broadcasting. Despite her permanent smile and good

attitude, she seemed a very sad woman. He told her he was going to go to town and she smiled at

him with a cloying motherly gesture that annoyed him. He did not like the attitude he had lately

taken towards his mother, after all, he knew that she loved him and that he had given her more

than he always needed. She asked him if he was going to leave despite his father's death and

Santiago told him yes, he did not want to think too much about it and that since they were the last

fiest Before leaving school, we had to leave. His mother reminded him that he could not
drink alcohol for antidepressants, to which Santiago nodded indifferently . Then he asked her if she

was going to get out of this mess , and he said that since he was not going to delay, his appearance

really was not important. The mother did not want to insist; He smiled, opened the drawer of the

bedside table, took out four fifty-thousand bills, gave them to him and blessed him. Then they said

goodbye with a quick kiss on the cheek.

When he left through the gate of the villa , Santiago tried to remember the book he had

been reading but could not, it was as if that part of his memory had suddenly been erased. Then, as

he walked along the yellow dirt path that wound down to the village, he felt a new tremor , though

it was much stronger than the morning. A l turn around , Santiago saw to his house with gardens

and fruit trees, it is the swallow a crack recently was had opened in the ground. Undoubtedly, that

vision was very realistic and , Maybe because of the fear of the realization that it was true, or that

it was not true, Santiago decided to ignore it and just shrug his shoulders and turn around

to continue on his way.

Diary of a webcamer: getting high while praying a rosary and doing multiple works of charity

and sanitation vegan challenge

I have an uncle called Cagadas , that is to say, that's what they say, because his name is really

Martin. Is a short , fat guy with a sad look. A red shadow always shines on the cache inflated tes
and brevuda nose , YL to belly sticks out tight below the long sleeve shirt striped ... After I became

a worldwide celebrity made a couple of physical appearances in town, and One of those I met with

my uncle Cagadas. He was standing in one of the beer awnings in the square and he was freshly

bathed and his hair was pulled back with gel. He was talking to a group of nice guys who

wore expensive brand clothes and were drinking whiskey while listening to him fun . Turds they told

the story of when he worked as a driver for a beer truck and threw him one day have half taken

truckload é l alone, after that was dedicated to butcher the square of fairs and carrangue ro, but

tired of the putrid smell of meat and gave himself away in the mine; that a few months later it was

swallowed with one of the most expensive emeralds found so far. Of the many million is that they

gave him for that stone, Cagadas told them that he had spent half on expensive

whores, whiskey, heifers and pigs with his colleagues in mine , and that the other party spent it on

a helicopter that he rented to the boss to bring jugglers to his mom. He said that when the village

saw that he was flying over the skipper's helicopter , the mayor and the parish priest quickly left

with an official retinue to meet him only to find him drunk, again poor and with the bag of mogullas

in his mother's hand. Cagadas then laughed and the youngsters alike , while they served another

round of whiskey .

I approached them with surprise and immediately all the men who were there, were almost

petrified to see me and began to sweat and pale . My uncle Ca Gadas in principle was the one who

moved to greet c on fear and a little embarrassed, and wanted to put into context about the history

of when it was enguacado in Emerald Mine , I however shut him up with a gesture ... I asked the

men to make a line to give them some small pieces of paper that they should put under their

tongues, suck them and then pass them on. All of them did it in an organized and diligent way, and

of course, I also ate my corresponding piece of paper. The basic idea was to pray a rosary to the

virgin of Guadalupe while we were drugged and we cooked a vegan meal without using the hands
that had previously handled animals (including, of course, humans). That is to say, it was a kind of

mystical encounter to be able to carry out cures that would heal our souls and cleanse us of so much

absurdity that it would help us to lose weight from the fat of the people's air that makes us so fat.So

I called one of the ladies who sold meat to the cauldron across the street and I asked her to please

bring it to the center of the circle that He had asked the men to form. She told me that I could not

move it because it was very heavy and it was boiling, so what I did was dedicate myself to giving a

leash to those who were in the circle for imbeciles. Them it stuck at the height of the humerus, or

sometimes between the shoulder and the neck, or sometimes on the cubes and radii that were

discreetly used to cover the face. The issue of the rosary was because that day was the day of the

Virgin of Guadalupe or Carmen. So, while they were praying the birds, I would beat them with the

rejo but in general they did not realize it because maybe their brain did not give them to understand

the pain coming from my hand or who knows what ... Then I asked them that they would disguise

themselves as Santa Claus and go to loot the town and get gifts for the children in need of the

sidewalks ... they diligently did it ... meanwhile, I noticed how they broke windows and doors with

stones and bricks, how they burned some houses and destroyed the cars that were found and kicked

the stray dogs that were crossing them. In the background, a merengue echoed throughout the

town, repeating a chorus that said "my wife, I am already consuieeeeendo .... . ", Because I think

that we were at parties that night and there was an orchestra on a platform. A few hours later I

asked them to meet again in the awning where I already had each one their piece of meat in the

cauldron, and I thanked them for the euphoria in their activity but with the warning that I should

give them an important teaching, that It was as follows: that even if they pray a thousand rosaries,

and leave alcohol in their minds, and even though they eat a thousand vegan foods and break with

the ideologies that oppress and govern them, they will never stop being animals and that They must

know very well, very deeply. Then I give you a scientific explanation of the stigmas of Jesus and his
suffering on the cross according to studies done by forensic historians specialists in the new gospel,I

explain to you the chemical dislocation of the brain ... the sweating of the blood ... I describe what

the whips were made of and they whipped Jesus' back and ripped the flesh from his ribs ... and

asked them if anyone knows if God forbade in the bible that women will wear trousers, according

to what is said in Isaiah 20: 3, and since no one answers me, I tell them that women can wear it as

long as their pants are different from men's, according to the Psalm 14 and the website

veritascatolicas.co. And I tell them about the 30% discount that there are in air tickets for the coast,

and I tell them that their lives are likeand I tell them that their lives are likeand I tell them that their

lives are likeaccording to Psalm 14 and the website veritascatolicas.co. And I tell them about the

30% discount that there are in air tickets for the coast, and I tell them that their lives are

likeaccording to Psalm 14 and the website veritascatolicas.co. And I tell them about the 30%

discount that there are in air tickets for the coast, and I tell them that their lives are like the rusty

remains of an old machine that you do not know what it is for , and that notwithstanding the

indeterminable and inoperative, you will continue using them as mere broken screws as long as the

rosaries and the deaths of Jesus Christ last in the holy weeks, and that they They are the machine

and the screws, and the ones that turn it on.

The men are left with a pensive gesture but before that they have looked at me with expressive

eyes of solemnity and shame. So I leave them in the circle, wearing the red Santa Claus hats, and I

get back to cloister myself in my country house.

The youtuber series of Esteban

 Esteban had signed up for a youtubers contest for an online platform specializing in content for

teenagers. He had thought of parodying the world by adapting Beckett's plays in the format of a

web series that was erasing every day . The work of the first chapter was End of Partida , and

although Esteban had been obsessed by Beckett for more than fifteen days, at that moment he felt

increasingly insecure about doing the right thing. The last savings that remained of his successful,

and now defunct, career as a producer of reggaetón videos had been spent on that shoot that had

not yet taken off. So I needed desperately to have a quick success that would at least assure him

not to starve himself in the near future and serve him to pay back his antipsychotics.

The stage recreated a demolished room with the appearance of a post-apocalyptic nuclear

shelter , with concrete walls gnawed by moisture and the passage of time . The light barely entered

through two very tall and narrow windows in each of the thick side walls, and at the back was

a closed door , with two garbage cans half covered by an old and dirty blanket next to it . In the

center of the room Stephen stood sen Tado on a chair with wheels and wearing dark glasses and a

black wool cap. A blanket of the same color of the canecas covered his legs. In addition, d you

girls exaggeratedly operated was had gotten into the trash cans, while the third one was located

standing next to Esteban.