La
figura de neón relampaguea ante la vista de nadie. Alucina su reflejo el
lodazal portuario, mientras una marea de varones alcanza bajamar en colchones
salobres. Las aguas vivas de sus ojos se han secado varadas en lo dorado de la
malta. Y el gato negro titila y ronronea, y el crepúsculo asexuado le responde con barcos fantasmas de suspiros.
To young Mark. Always with one hand ocuppied. Children of thirty two try to tell me what is a good cigar and what isn’t. Me, who never learned to smoke, but always smoked; me, who came into the world asking for a light. Me, who when asked by a waitress about the kind of beer I would prefer, sweet, sour, toasted or fruity, always respond: cold. Me, who began going out when I was seven. Me, that have lived four hundred and fifty six weekends without throwing up once. Me, who stole my parent’s condoms right after my last brother was conceived. Me, who came from the uterus dancing and when the nurses left the room, lighted a ciggy.
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