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'm half in love with all the girls I Meet

heat gets into the skin of one, under one's skin, the skin of one, between the skin of one, until the heat becomes one's skin. Sweat in the heat inertia of watching television, playing cards with my brother or talking about London architecture my Mamu (while on TV are Gaudi and his holy family ... gaudí not, so this is the work continued growth in the screen ... architecture as something organic, breathing trasnpira like me) .
is that yes, my parents and my brother, Nico, came back. Italy and London, where my sister lives with david laura. It's so good to see the house alive again, to breathe and perspire. Because we are sleeping house my brother and I slept until three in the afternoon is that, a house sleeping. While there were moments of waking, and I doing lemmon vicky foot, santi and I playing metal slug, Jorge and I are talking about chess, and willie juani wine talking, playing songs of lying to juani and, above all, vicky cook. Above all that, the apron and pots in their eyes.
Those moments were the vigil and the dawn of the house. But the rest, the rest was sleep and sweat. And sweat asleep is not sweating. Sweating is now, the fan making noise unnecessarily (too lazy to get up and point to where I sit), the tele very low, belle and sebastian in my head and memories of sweating a lot better. Dance, move, sweat.

Anyway, now the sweat is good sweat in silence because beds are filled with people who also trasnpira, but asleep. And not transpire as I sleep. Right now, sweating escucahndo writing and the fan, I feel I am part of something else. Or that the thing is that this home. Or that this house is more for me than I feel. The architecture ...
One thing that is not me, perhaps it or (if they joined forces and encouraged me) we are. We may not be more than sweat, some whisper that I remember and the fan noise. And I like that idea. When I get to believe in the beauty, almost certainly feel very, very similar to how you feel now my sweat and odor. And I think we
is no longer the analogy of it and I think now we are all people I love. She, naty, jorge, bere, mer, agus, my old mail, juani, santi, lau, dew and, interestingly, more people than I can remember now. That's good. We are now in my sweat, my bad smell my desire to reveal and fan noise, a lot of people I love and who they are and they in relation to me.

And what am I in relation to you.

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fuckedupvegetal @ 2004-01-10T04: 42:00

The other day we rehearsed in Mathias. Vicky came, too. Matias's house is the abolition of order and civilization. It's an amazing thing, this lelna of "stuff." To where you look, "things." Moreover, throughout the house and arranged without any apparent criteria, are stuck in the old works. I love what Oscar does, over the RE has a beard.
I would try to explain or convey what it felt like when we played, but I do not think you can. I should have seen vicky meintras playing bass, lying on the floor with eyes closed ... Later came

Lizandro and began to bake a potato cake ... There is something so strangely beautiful in chopping onions. We played super nintendo (I play bad, but shhhhh, do not tell anyone.) Then go down the table, put the tablecloth. At some point I put a vinyl of the mothers who had Oscar ("burnt weenie sandwich", the English edition is called "burning inventive sandwich, which sounds incredibly well) ... The mixture of vinyl is much better than the cd. This album is a damn crazy. We danced a lot with vicky ...

Later we all went to the table (put tablecloths is strangely beautiful, too) and eat Duke put on a disk that had all the style (eating with the Duke of substance, on vinyl, is to have style.)
not remember in what order, but with a temporary space in the middle, appeared at the door julia and favors. Julia is a woman's love, not the voice if you have or what, but it always gives me a warm feeling hard to explain. And see mercedes always good.

matías Yard cucas filled this super-duper, and surprisingly, I went running. I did have moments of panic terrible (as he hugged em vicky julia said it was cute).


was an afternoon (which was turning into night) too pretty ... Not if the heat was unbearable transmuted into sweat that had nearly everyone (except the girls ... the girls always smell good, not like, but always smell good), walking barefoot, see vicky sleepy while we noises, strange conversation at 3 am with julia on time or what, but it was too good. Today

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antepenultimate music and dance would also be

juani (my brother) went to a hoe, so I got up super-duper late, I heated a Milanese, watching spongebob ate, bathed and got to wash the dishes while listening to music. When I got to track that of the bee nineties I started dancing with the sponge and dishes ... I imagined that scene would have been if you were here, while I danced with the sponge. Charm of everyday life ...
If it was passed without that you exist, if today had been before I met you, sure (very sure) would be stopped washing dishes and inert, all gray. And would having you afraid of women. Now Playing
underworld and I shake my head too silly as I write and try to dance with you.

When I was eleven dancing. I was eleven, I like Peter Gabriel and dancing. My brother had a videotaped concert, put it on TV in the morning, before going to school and I started to dance in a hilarious way.
After that stop dancing, no, I forgot.
Later, a few years later, you appeared you and I wanted to dance again. Like dancing, writing, doing historietitas. Do not know how, let alone why, I had forgotten all that.
Today-and today it since I was waiting on a ladder or grab you hand and went running from the violent noise-and I have eleven years.

Now Playing Piano Man by Billy Joel (jijijiji)

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The state I'm in

recently (and lately I mean an indefinite but relatively long segment of right temporal - auqnue I refuse to accept the idea of righteousness in time) I'm feeling like dawn. Yes, Dawn. Not talking about waking up early and go to school, work, start playing the jeuguito civilized person, stop dreaming and start being what we are not. It is dawn, a natural phenomenon and every day, completely alien to me, but it is not dawn. I speak of the verb, the act completely personal and intimate of dawn. Not a fact, but rather something that is a certain mornings. One comes to life at once but not stop dreaming. Maintain the flow of time dream. And the curtains have a slightly different color, the coffee smells better, waking up in the bright sun, white strangely before noon.
The smell of orange blossoms of bright light in the morning, that.
Also, smell the chance, but that is another matter.


Dawn. Ser Ser


morning. Lift


blinds. Light through curtains. Frosted Flakes milk. Smelling cinnamon.

Love ...




... That must be it.