cigarettes, cortázar, water.

my birthday and wine, bitter wine. wine is the rite of writing, or viceversa. but literary cum puddles leave a discarded blogged stain in time.

listen to him, he likes to hear himself talk, likes to hear himself form NICE SENTENCES, the one said to the other in the eternal give and take.

and last night the virgin mary hovered over your bed like a ghost while you were sleeping, wine bleeding from between her legs and staining her robes, what does she mean?

went to eat mexican food, god bless her. fajitas and quesadillas and aji and guacamole and sour cream and etc.

on the corner by the restaurant we witnessed a robbery. three naive northamerican girls trekking through a bad neighbourhood, one of whose backpacks was pried off her back while she screamed, the Blacks Strike Again. perhaps angolans, this time?

last night i enjoyed my chilean soap opera, MACHOS, the bittersweet story of seven brothers and their lovers. holy fucking shit: the father has just told one of his eldest sons that his son's wife was actually his mistress for fifteen years.

needless to say, the man went kind of crazy. running around yelling in the ocean and such.
i can't wait for tonight.

the metaphor of stumbling through discarded wrapping paper slipping through my mind's hands?