We spent the afternoon in the maze of ruins. Crossing streets, churches, viewpoints, up and down the few remaining elevators in the world this neoliberal Chile privatized. We're sick of seeing so many police come and go and people shouting that we do not have the camera in hand, it does not take money on the street, we are careful with backpacks. Child C paranoia begins to grow and where there was a port city, is now at its peak Rosinha. Is stabbed, shot, beaten, broken by some asshole boyfriend. But no. So far, the most that happened to us was that we cried if we wanted crack or ecstasy, love drug, one of the squares. Obviously we are the jerks. Child C while eating another puff with caramel, F a chocolate cake. And then, as we do not give ball, we want to speak English and we suggest things. I'm still in the mine and stop screwing around. Soon, an old beckons to go. By the look I know with what intention. Minga, old, Minga, as we say in Argentina. Child C and leaves him with the dribble. Hanged.
Suddenly it is night and again at the Plaza Sotomayor. Only now, a huge stage, he sings Pedro Aznar. Just left the French. Aznar began the concert. At first he seemed drowsy, monotonous, and with lyrics vapid and full of rhymes without meaning or rhyme or reason, the style Belén Francese. Child C began to throw their poison away, but suddenly, things changed and some Aznar took over the stage. And then I understood everything, sooner or later, the true artist, it assaults him that some have called the silence, other hallucination, some genius, some magic and I prefer to call the Beast. And when it appears and makes the artist, his toy, when you agree to the point that the body seems to disintegrate or late life and staged a tense vibration, nothing can stop it and that makes this happens, at least one or two or three songs, or a poem or a verse or a story or a novel or a stroke in one box, and we can not forget. We come into contact with indelible. Aznar and Valparaiso and the moon above and will not leave my head.
Suddenly it is night and again at the Plaza Sotomayor. Only now, a huge stage, he sings Pedro Aznar. Just left the French. Aznar began the concert. At first he seemed drowsy, monotonous, and with lyrics vapid and full of rhymes without meaning or rhyme or reason, the style Belén Francese. Child C began to throw their poison away, but suddenly, things changed and some Aznar took over the stage. And then I understood everything, sooner or later, the true artist, it assaults him that some have called the silence, other hallucination, some genius, some magic and I prefer to call the Beast. And when it appears and makes the artist, his toy, when you agree to the point that the body seems to disintegrate or late life and staged a tense vibration, nothing can stop it and that makes this happens, at least one or two or three songs, or a poem or a verse or a story or a novel or a stroke in one box, and we can not forget. We come into contact with indelible. Aznar and Valparaiso and the moon above and will not leave my head.
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