A tale about death and dream.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
It´s an experience about how a dream lives the mother´s relation, time, sexual relations, places, etc, etc.

Submitted: February 16, 2013

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Submitted: February 16, 2013

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One does everything. Scorch, if it is necessary, an entire population of Russia. But also, if it is necessary, kill to mom. Well, that's my case. Not planning to take her death for months. No. It was just she did a damn noise, and !I just wanted to hear the symphony 5!. Recently I killed to my mother. It was she made noise. I just was full needy of sound and order. Wait, what I am saying?. Repeat, moon, death, first symphonic movement. Think after read on a paper: The Universe is wrong with the need for order. That meteor should not fall in Russia. He should fall into the damn and fool Colombia. How happy we would be in need of Chaos and Hitlerisms if seeing the dullest race of mankind scorched by a meteor. Yes, but my mother too. She was so noise. I just was needy of hear Bernstein´s direction symphony 5. In search of an absolute and a smell like rusty metal, rot, and scratch, from the bottom, this moon, this concert, and this environment as stupid and as Colombian, I served to myself to kill her. Was not to Camus´s style, but, anycase, how happy I am feeling that one of these days she will die. I presage that, as Caligula, or as an Arab, I will grant four shots to other (maybe my mom, maybe other arab, yes, be as a meteor), and then the sun with some blue salt, indifferent face to face, will hit me in a shimmering space with unbearable silence, unbearable jerk off, unbearable symphonies; at same of a unique beauty. Yes, meteor, yes. 

 

Then occurred me to go direct my steps, and my half erect dick, and my troubled thoughts and this satisfaction I have to charge, and this symphony and this death of mom. But then, glad to see some films of Woody Allen, seeing nothing but windows, and mothers with their children, and noise, and noise, and more noise, I went finally into a bookstore from center. The first thing I noticed was Crime and Punishment, who recently finished reading. And not, as Borges,  I thought hopelessly in the eternal river of Heraclitus. Not. That´s not about me and not about arabs and dead moms but yet about noise. Well, what I mean is that to see that book there I felt a terrible passion for jerk off. Throw all my semen. Throw all my shit. Throw all Russian meteor, all russian population, throw all terribly delicious and tearing russian literature. 

 

I finish this tale about death with even more useless lines who precede before. But, truly, I finish this tale some time ago since I have been drinking whiskey, talkin with Claudia (naked in front me), smoke some cigarettes, listening Jazz´s Coltrane, smelling death everywhere I pass; even here, Claudia, naked in front me, watching our movie of tedium and cigarette and music and death and my mom who sometimes pass and say Hi Juan, how it´s going symphony?. And then I hate her for interrupt me in my jerk off, but I like too, because, between the climax, coffee and also cigarette, and also between the intermediate fart, I know, to throw all my semen on the cover of Crime and Punishment, I'll go find Claudia, who recently has dressed quickly, as usual, and is gone. I'll fetch her. Yes, because coffee is not the same without her. Let me explain. I do not care her presence. I just need to keep it in mind. Precisely because talking justify the time and drown. In the sense that it does not need this, but yes. People just need to have her there, quietly, carefully enclosed in a stupid condition of broken machines that talk, and talk, and talk.

 

Then. I use so much "then", because it remebers me to the Kurt Vonnegut subtle accent when he says "then", and this is, to say, to drop his irony 80´s.  And this forces me, I don´t know why, to make and make more jerk off, and to think in meteors, and in Russians, and, maybe, (was a stranger night), which I thought in the last cigar of Dostoviesky, or my last cigar in Russia. And this gives me pleasure, but too feels that I must to drink coffee, and smoke, and make more jerk off, and walk, and think. Yes, above all think; since Kurt Vonnegut subtle accent to the death of an English man of arround a fogotten street to black and white of London. (There I see the book store), and Mr. Rodriguez, I can sit and ask, with all the strength of a Mysticism innate gross (because being religious is but a mask of all our natural mysticism gross), which a meteor fall, and smearing the entire population of chips dying for fire, and I will see Claudia, and I see myself. Yes, and it will be when I wake up from this dream that I'm certainly aware. I do not know how can I still wake up. Perhaps it was the mixture of coffee and green tea prepared by mom. Or the music.

 


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