was a bit 'that are missing from here. So much that I almost missed this fetid air. The first light of morning, flooding the city. Before my eyes there are memories of past lives. Girls in bloom left on the door. Old matrons, sluts craft paid to send away a bit 'sad.
Whores are the psychology of the road. Enter. The vomit on some shit behind each other. The pay you and you come out empty leaving the weight of a life of shit who is accustomed to wallowing in shit every day between a violent pimp that marks the punched card and a slobbering old to fight his impotence .
I have a bottle. A bar. The music of a juke box that plays continuously since 1960, from the days when a Mary Jane moved her legs dangling your dreams.
Those were good times. Time where time did not yet know of the past and seemed to age really impossible. From the pockets of my days I'm so, so much that even I can remember, and the rest as drops of whiskey on the counter it is washing away the old bitch at the bar.
Suddenly the sadness fades, the lights go up, the atmosphere fades on nothing. The audience cheers roar applause as summer rains. Bravo, well, congratulations! I want more! Tell us a story yet!
And I produce in a funny bow, because that's the direction they want. There's nothing to talk about tonight. The piano music playing the last eighth while leaving a chair painted in solitude.
Through the black backdrop and is already another dimension, another world ... or maybe not.
Motel, sweaty beds other thousand sons of bitches, of shit food, alcohol, poor and nasty on duty to make you stables stelle.
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