"Caemos, por que no tenemos alas."

¿Tu que sabes?

Take a drag, or two.

Una relacion no es una competencia, nadie debe llevar puntaje para intentar sobrepasar al otro. Si uno hace algo para su propio beneficio, y no para el detrimento del otro, pero el otro solo ve el supuesto detrimental y ni se le ocurre la existencia de un beneficial, comienza un juego de actos mezquinos y vengativos.

Las dos personas involucradas no son de equipos diferentes, si no del mismo.

Biografia de un bailarin

Nacio en Brazil, en 1890.

Brinco con alegria y con gracia dio vueltas.

Murio en Pakistan, en 1940.

The tree in my window is white now.
Flowers have blossomed, attached to the branches, attached to the tree rooted in the earth.
The crows are mating, chasing each other around. A crow threesome it seems, on the tree in my other window.
An airplane emerges from the clouds, draws a line across the sky, becomes a speck as I distance myself from it. The speck disappears into the
Blue.
And I am still here.
I have seen spring one more time
And I am glad I have eyes
and ears.
And a cigarette in my mouth,
Burning tobacco and paper
Smoke rises and follows the wind.
My hair follows the smoke

My back aches. Jelly becomes hard.
A string tight across my back,
Twang.
Strings return to their original tense form after some wavering.
The earth has returned to spring.
I will return to a stretched out cord
And strum a chord.
Chord of life.
Resounds and becomes a harmony.
I exhale, I inhale, and I think one last time
A man has to do what a man has to do.
No dilly dally.

The sun makes my glasses shine but my eyes squint.
Crows and seagulls float effortlessly in the sky, looking for food.
Holes pokes in bags, dry chow mein noodles crushed under my sandals, all over the balcony floor.
An empty, not yet, bag of cereal, flakes strewn around it, like the fluids of a corpse, escaping a gashing stomach wound and two burning ember bullet holes.

The dark chair in the corner of my balcony is made of plastic string, woven around a metal frame.
When it rains the drops slide off the curved and repetitive strings.

I sit on a white lawn chair, or balcony chair.
If I scratch the arm rest with my dirty nails a layer of dry dirt and paint peel off.

A can of beer on a round, three legged table, white and metallic. It cools me, and makes my speech slur. Under the table, a mess of old, moist bird food and butts and bottle caps.

The trail of butts leads to a white trash bin. Our ash tray. As the rainy days happened, the bin filled with water. The water is brown. We joke that when it all evaporates we will have liquid nicotine, deadly if touched.

Is there anything that maximizes our perceptual limits and triggers all our senses simultaneously?
Everything, if we know ourselves.

No me gusta el picante porque se queda en mi boca por demasiado tiempo, y prefiero tener el sabor en neutro.