Neru

En un lugar despejado y separado...con paisajes altos y desnivelados.... vivio un gran hombre despellejado y gordote. Se hizo un gran hombre en vida, y haciendo de lo posible un gran chiste secreto, tuvo una chilla en una mansion maritima terreste. Dicen que en Napoles le regalo un gran libro a Matilde. Muy cierto es que los barrotes de su mansion los deletreaban... y que su pisa papeles imitaba la mano de ella. Las olas de sus recuerdos habitan todavia alli. Donde unos cuantos visitan para recordarle siempre alegre, siempre unico, siempre pseudonimamente el.




-no hay acentos..-

.17.4.09.

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Let's do it again, let's begin to write a story. With fictional characters that share some qualities with their creator. The creator that is both a fictional narrator and an actual living "writer". It starts and it ends with life... with living:


There was a space between the wall and the bed. She had been staring at it for over and hour. Her body felt 20 pounds overweight and her mind floated in a concious dream of blank thoughts. She never understood stay at home moms till now, and even though she wasn't a mother, she didn't feel olbligated to be productive. She felt ok with someday being a stay at home mom. She felt like she had an old soul. So there was no much point of being productive... because her soul had already lived a thousand lives, there wasn't anything new her soul could experience. So nothing moved her...from the bed. She was uncapable of getting high. A friend explained it as her being "magical". But all it was really, was a sordid emptiness that made her seem as if she was high all the time.

She was fairly productive... she could add, subtract and multiply like a straight A third grader. She could spell right in 2 languages and she had a keen memory for every task she was granted every day at work. She was turning 25 in spring and this pre quarter life crisis that scared her friends, baffled her.