Gifting A Home To A Relative In Bc

Six photos
few months ago I changed the phone by an issue of Ancel contracts and do not know what else. My father walked me talking mp3, blutuz, and so on style, but I kept dialing numbers while further imminent and will not cause cancer in eggs we would get. The phone is a Nokia, and beyond some schizophrenic behavior (calling people alone, who knows why), I was quite happy with the purchase. It was only a month to get it than I began to expand its range of uses, using it as a camera. Of course, photos that can be taken with a cell phone (and most digital cameras) are means farts, but somehow it has helped me to capture certain times or certain images that are often crumble in my memory. I have cameras faces (which are not as much), but when the charge as long as I have a sense of danger that haunt me enough that I stolen. In contrast, the cell phone, or worry me. The interesting thing is that the cell will always carry with me, allowing me to take pictures in fully linked random situations. When I have a camera in my hand post, nothing interesting to me is often the case, as when one was young and was waiting for Santa Claus to surprise behind the tree.

The following are six photographs rather than pictures, are trigger situations that happened to me, and obsessions that haunt these days I walked.
So, first of all, the photos do not pursue any artistic purpose, are more bottles of formaldehyde that photo itself, so I do not come talking about Sea Ray, Philippe Halsman, or Weegee.

Kamikaze
One Thursday, after learning that a patient was readmitted to Vilardebó (for the third time in a month and a half) I found myself in the middle with nothing to do but go back to my house. By Tristan Narvaja was holding to 18 when I happened to pass strangely by faculty ( strangely, because I do not usually fall into power without good reason). It's exam period and the patio is right plunged to a reasonable desert. Miro without much interest some posters of psychoanalytic sessions (a gesture that only real interest is an alibi, as they are journeys that may never go) and crossed the yard, finding no one except Kamikaze. Do not know much what is the diagnosis, but a sort of armed Kamikaze circuit, alternating between the psychology department and the center of Vilardebó day (for non-Uruguayans, the main psychiatric hospital in Uruguay). It's a pretty particular, the first times I saw him wearing a cowboy hat and carrying his guitar as if it were an extension of your body (and when one speaks of body appendages in psychotic what is metaphor.) I never wanted to befriend the Kamikaze, mainly for being a mangueador almost terminal. Whenever you see you need a weight, a burden to pay for a bus, one dollar to buy a croissant in the school canteen, a weight to call mine who met in the street of fire, not a burden to have nine weight and reach a quorum. Many people have told me that the last days of Edward and Matthew were half, everyone was running away because the first thing I did, was ask almost indiscriminately silver. One always tempting to put all the crazy artists within the same category (The Ars Brut, Outsider Art , horn or want to call) without realizing that is a bag that is full of holes, always ready to tear. In general people think of madness as a bonus for reaching certain states of consciousness different from other people, but in reality, as with the use of hallucinogens, although the reality multipliers have served much in some productions, you could never say that the work is an exclusive product of that (it would take all the weight of the container of the artist and put them in the container of the drug, when the thing is actually much more complex). In the same way as taking aspirin does not make you Jerry Garcia, be crazy not automatically make you a Van Gogh. In fact, a sad truth that I have had personal view is that most of the insane tend to be descended in many fields, and are usually attached to ultraconvencionales aspects in their artistic branches, from the childishness of patients who only draw houses with flowers and little sun, types they borrow the messianic medical discourse and make songs when they were wrong, and how God or the doctors saved him.

In many cases, the most creative thing I've seen is the same delusion. For
Kamikaze, always saw it doing covers of Sabina and the like, so I never took it quite seriously in terms of creativity.
I walked around more and found none. I was going when I heard a song that was out of the Kamikaze guitar. It was a strange song, which generated a particular mood through a curious combination of major and minor chords. He had a strange quality to let you know if it was not a happy or sad song. Could be a celebration of unhappiness or grief to joy. Or something. The thing is that I stayed with Kamikaze, while playing that song and noticed the guy next to you, but as one who sees a pigeon a few feet from his feet. Kamikaze finishes the song and looks at me and say "is a good topic Kamikaze, where did you get it." Laughs and answer me "This theme is mine." I say "ah, look that good, I liked this issue." (The truth is that I really liked this issue, what I say is sincere, though I blame myself to hear my voice, which at times resembles that of a schoolteacher). "You have other ideas?". "Yes, you have a weight?". The counter-question was to be expected and drew two dollars and who pays a street artist. He says "This latter has not yet completed, I have to lay down the letter." "Never mind, touch it and see how it goes." He laughs self-absorbed and begins to play. He plays with his eyes closed, vocalizing excessively, the guitar does not help and do not pinch fingers well with some dishes, the chords are bright, yet rotten sound. While singing I'm reading the letter written in a notebook, a very neat handwriting, with the G, F and G # as hats on each rhyme. I do not remember much of the song, but at some point says something like "and I took a walk / through the streets of the city / and she appeared / and flash." It is a good theme, and the last word puzzles me. I wonder what it means flash, and like a father to the question of how babies are born, in complicity smiles and says "is a state of mind."
of nowhere appears the Baron Laguna and Sheba, and surprised at my luck to find them, we were talking about the four. Al Kamikaze had already greeted and asked to touch another topic. Starts to play one, but we soon realize is screwing us and is playing one of Calamaro, with a strange accent that makes it look more like Bunbury. Kamikaze has a bandage covering her entire forehead. The Baron of the pond asked what is that band and Kamikaze responds that he hit the other day, wanting to jump a bank. We were watching the band and agree that it gets very cool. "Now I see it, is like Karate Kid," he commented, and Baron of the lagoon and Seba laugh, but laugh more Kamikaze, a laugh of excitement filled trips. "We have to ask you some Chinese characters, there'd be the same sam Kamikaze." The guy gets excited and says "Ahjajaja, yes, haha, wait for me a horn, and I come." Enter a room that acts as student union headquarters and back with a blue drypen hand. "Draw me, draw me." "I do not remember much about the Chinese characters, was some time in Japan, but I do not remember much." "No, draw me ... did you see the Star of David?". "Sure." "Dale, that, draw me that." "Are you sure?". "Yes, yes, the star of David, the star of David do me. " As if someone talking to your future tattoo artist, I am required to first show him a notebook to see if they know it. I quickly do the two overlapping triangles and is re crazy excited. Drypen gives me a strange solemnity and me on the head. Slowly, I make the two blue triangles. No sooner had we finished what we cagamos of laughter and the guy is going to see in the reflection of the windows of faculty. Guild mines go and ask them what they think. Them, without knowing much what to say, they answer that seems original. Kamikaze smiles and asks if they have no weight.
Seba is about me and says: "What form
the Kamikaze ..." While
stay away Pocitos is safe.

Anal-retentive
I always was a neurotic, but at least one happily dirty neurotic. I was never greatly bothered by not washing my hands, and walked no controlling the times I bathed (that pretty much decided the oiliness of my hair.) It came from the bus and with confidence put his hand in a container of pickles and I ate two or three, sucking the vinegar that was left between the fingers. Opened the doors of public toilets, and sometimes I just washed his hands (more for the novelty of the hand dryer, which drives real toilet). I sat in the street I went to bed fully clothed, I woke up and continued my life the next day, wearing the same clothes the day before.
few months ago my father introduced the civilizing invention of alcohol gel. I'd seen at the home of Mary (his mother is a dentist and has particularly large dispenser), but the idea of \u200b\u200bhaving it at home I was too far away. It was not necessary to discuss this twice, and true to his impulsive spirit, my father did not hesitate to buy it. The point is that since the introduction of this product to my house, and especially how practical is it that you dry in a few seconds, I began to use coextensive with all activities linked to me. Went to the bathroom and spent the alcohol. Faculty came and anointed me hands. Everything was more or less well-and hospital clean-up the other day I went to a bakery is right next to my school. It occurred to me to buy a Milanese bread, and then I realized I had serious reservations making the purchase. Did not take long to realize that that would not eat without washing my hands. Of course, there was no alcohol gel, soap or anything like that on several blocks around. I ended up forcing me to eat chicken fried steak, but could not reconstructions of the events of the day, linking my hands on activities such as grab the handrail, manage notes, draw a window, tie a few strips to be dragged through July 18.
It was getting harder and I never got sick.
As the great Robyn Hitchcock, A happy bird bird is a filthy . Muses

anonymous
I was never a type of model. There must be exceptions, but almost all of my muses from the film world, and occasionally the musical. In Argentina, the modeling seems, Tinelli by increasingly interwoven with the world of starlets, which is a handicap, really. On the other hand, the models always seemed too European for my taste mortis.
Beyond this personal matter, every so often I find a random sample that I end up be particularly attractive, often lost in some old magazine hairdressing, or in advertising for a bus that goes too fast to get a picture or hold in memory. This creates a particular evanescence my obsession, because a general-except in the most famous, is given in full to their anonymity, and is not available as the internet media to have more material of that person. I've said many times, I have a strange desire to collector, and when a beautiful woman whose name I do not know anything, there comes the anguish of someone who hears a beautiful song on the radio, not knowing who or when it did. One is about a friend and tells "is one that in part the guitar riff makes a wave ta-ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta" , usually getting the bewildered face of another person, a face that is adjacent to shame. Well, it's the same with these muses anonymous. The list is somewhat brief, usually not something that arises very often, but every so often appears. Plot model was a few years ago, I knew that was Brazil, which appeared much in the abusive propaganda material of Rolling Stone. Now, there are certain bus Kosiuko a muse-a brand that had always characterized by teens skinny and without grace is undoubtedly perfectly boring those perfections, which have a plus one who knows what, as if it were an angelic version of Kate Moss and a strange expression of fatigue, or expect, or something in between. Then there is the mine of tanning L'Oreal, whose image attached above. The laburo photo is not the best, even the face was captured in a way that makes him imperfect asymmetric well, as if I had more bone and flesh from one side of the face than the other. However, there is a strange essence behind face perverse originally virgin, which gives some key that makes me feel extremely attractive. For some strange reason suntan marks within a subject as sexualized as spreads naked body of people with lotions, never looked so contaminated with eroticism. There as a subcode that says being sexy with motor oil is allowed, whereas with tanning is so explicit that it is something fat. Who knows why, but that's exactly what I find attractive image. The photo highlights the abdomen over her tits. Even, the mesh is particularly prudish, pure white, as in case covering the entire pubic scene, lest it slip away something. The position is fairly static and not very cool, but there are agglomerations that works on the face, or rather, eyes, or perhaps the subtext between the eyes and mouth. It would appear that originally had been a test shot, discard, like those taken suddenly seconds before you can try a pose. The magic of this term lies in the same reasons why I think Adventure cover of TV, as one of the best covers of all time. In this picture all go look at the floor, scratching his neck, some insecurity board radically opposed to what is expected within the canons of rock (the rocknnnen ). The photo of sunscreen works (or at least works for me ), for the same reason, only in reverse: behind the scene graceless and prudish, something about the chick that invited you over.
to the barber shop of Mary and I get to Vichar magazines. There is a Rolling Stone that I read it almost full, and fixed me reluctantly in some paparazzi, and a weekly. Time passes but the brushing of hair is blonde with waist extends more time than I had thought, and grabbed a Bla. Nothing interesting happened leaves no particular deference. That's where I see, the last facet, a black and white photo Francisca Valenzuela and Fernando Cabrera (I guess the racks in Solis, a touch that gave a few months). It's strange, but the appearance of Valenzuela seems more attractive than ever-gangly-were nowhere near my taste. I do not know what it is, but seeing photos like this one , I think I might attract a certain geometry that maintains Valenzuela head over his body. Two arms here, two men there, his head placed as a Christmas tree star, pendants, hair consistently high as the mast of a ship. A according to B, perfect symmetry, x is clear: Tautology. I like the face, the way the face is a function of body Valenzuela certain formalism, the same formalism that makes me see (relatively speaking) the individual's face Monica Vitti as something tremendously attractive.
And strangely, I feel like a chick that Frances could be my friends, those friends that you begin to create problems semiological.
now reviewing the journals of the hairdresser, I remember a very fat magazine that had pictures of celebrity marriages in the seventies. Between flares and shirts with epaulettes, had family who had called me full attention. She was a woman with her hair, cheeks quite marked, eyes so sweet and sad, like Barbara Lombardo. The chick wearing a cloth Sacone, if I remember correctly, her husband beside her like a moron, those people stuffing found in droves. I thought it was a woman to become a coffee, to that which you admire in certain frivolous activities such as going off the diving shoulder stooping to find something, or concentrated by scratching his face something that is staining glass. For a moment I thought to boot the blade to take her to my house (with a passionate entomologist, as if another butterfly dissected for collection), but that seemed a worthy act of a madman, though no one would realize . At the end I left it to luck, and I thought she looked one day like this. Now I realize that the magazine is no longer. I think if the chick will have been happy with the douchebag photo, and now I think those should be wrinkled cheeks, and probably a veteran chick eating cookies with her friends in a cafe in Callao, thinking to go with their grandchildren to his summer home in Bahia Blanca.

Whoregasm
You are more or less clear that pornography sets are not exactly the best atmosphere environment with the world, but one-trick still far from glamorous pseudo exultant and make us believe that Ron Jeremy and the AVN Awards- always tend to think that Dante is not the show that keep the most ardent opponents to that institution. After seeing Porn's Most Outrageous outtakes , my position wobbles a bit. The documentary - Darius, who recommended it to me says it's a powerful example of Cinema Verité - rather than documentary is a behind the scenes without much editing of porn sets. While one can see explicitly what happens for the first time cameras are not as interested in capturing penises and vulvas, but remain attached to the faces of the protagonists, a grimace of an illuminator, the director's instructions, the Kleenex that clean the cum between scenes. Depending on the case, one time thought to be as fun as you imagine, and yet so horrific and degrading as others maintain. Overall are excerpts from much more home production (nothing to do with the mega Vivid), plus craft and lesser-known actresses, so that managers are allowed certain freedoms that other circumstances could be taken. There are actresses who are so drugged they can not stand, there is a mine that by participating in a gangbang with four brown revives a dream that was raped by a black, entering a strange state of shock that their makeup smeared mixture with tears and other bodily fluids, "there pendejas looking to make some money and put a gagging order to but knew who had signed for it, and so a series of atrocities gallery every now and then is cut delirious moments of absurdity, like a real piñata in a bukkake scene, and odd moments of tenderness of the directors to actresses.
In this game of light and shade, there is a moment that I found completely amazing, a rare subtlety that is worth all the documentaries and books have been filmed or written about the Blue Industry. An actress is in full cowgirl scene with a guy and reaches an orgasm. The next scene shows you the chick behind the camera. Is crying for something that nobody understands. We begin to ask and the chick says he feels guilty for having done as he did with the actor. From there it begins to weave the yarn and the chick says he feels that having got the horns as a boyfriend, whom he loves deeply. The types of console and behind the scenes flow into something quite different, as if it had been a most insignificant thing. For me, it's something interesting. How it works at fault. After all, the penis and had him in, but sex has little or nothing to do with penetration. It is not penetration, but the fiction, those little stories that account for the real self of the act which makes it a sexual relationship. While she was an actress and groaned and according to plan outlining a director, it could not be considered at all a hoax. But then something broke, like dodging a mule in the middle of the road, swerved and hit a blonde went to the shoulder. He came to come, rather, is saw coming and could do nothing. I look around the scene and concluded that the fault is just that, a country at war, surrounded by invisible markers. Tattoos


Rabid Fish will make the four bars of Black Flag on the left arm.
I wonder if I can follow when you do, and that is something I never did, "another friend @ s acomopañé a psychologist, dentist, to solve a problem with your partner, buy a mattress, to deposit money in a bank and buy substances psychoactive, but never get a tattoo, "but Fish tells me Callico Berserker (the famous tattoo artist of 26 March), for provision of local issues, not allowed to watch their laburo, so that the wait would be tremendous mess.
comes a time in the life of every boy-at least those born after 1985 - that under analysis option tattooing seriously. I'm so indecisive with these issues, which will probably never find an item you would like to accompany me the rest of my life. The closest I came to be marked with ink was when I was sixteen and I make my famous logo Tolkien, procastinación to which I am very grateful, because my nerdez would have risen to unsustainable levels. I never found anything about what I associate both, or something that was in such harmony as to tattoo aesthetic. If I had to make me one, I probably would cover the Dawn owl on the right arm, not just for the sake of being a band Goodfellas gave me very important moments in recent years, but also because the owls were Images that accompanied me since childhood, my father was a football player Tecos, and there were many such figures winged creatures in my house, "and because, quite simply, is a very nice picture (and if I start new age, owls represent the wisdom and all that shit ...). But still, I never would a tattoo.
And this I am sure when they see tattoos as can be seen in the dump section of the official website of Callico . I've laughed so hard in recent months, there are monsters who can not understand how anyone dared hacérselas, tattoos left standing as a prisoner of Leonardo da Vinci INAU undoubtedly products of drunken nights and morning regrets. There is a photo troja the funniest comments I've read in a long time, but certainly among the best is the "Portrait manga che-cut version hair cumbia (year 90) or mullet and tarantula legs grabbing the cigar "and" rasta jesus head with exaggerated goatee fleet angry while disarming her pearl necklace. " cleave a Vichada, is really the funniest thing I've read, and make one feel rather glad to have arms and back ink-free.
The attached photo above is from the respective arms of Hiram (Psiconautas leader, Uoh and member of Sex) and Pau O'Bianchi (singer of 3 sins Millonesdecasasconfantasmas, RR.SS. and Heaven knows what else). Pay particular attention to prison tattoo Pau, coiled snake that consumed the elephant short-handled sword, with an expression that does not distinguish between laughter and impending bite.

18 and Yaguarón
After a sample of the morbidity of my sleep (would require a study of missed sleep depending on the height of youtube), I woke up on Tuesday at about 0:15 noon apuradísimo to go to therapy, which began at one o'clock. In a way, on Tuesdays and Fridays I have built a sort of routine that is based on up, got my daily come to me only on Tuesdays and Fridays, and take my 121 (mostly doing this as a creation of George Romero).
going to be a day like any another, until I noticed the culture section. An article by JG Lagos spoke of Roberto Apprato two books, one called 18 and Yaguarón, a book whose title caught my attention (and then would know why), so I kept reading. It was there that as I read, I began to feel something between anger and astonishment than anger, frustration, rather than awe, fear. JG Lagos was talking about a novel I had been writing throughout this year. (Explain the similarities between what I have been writing and the review I read would talk about what I hope to write, or what you would expect to get in my writing, that is, should develop a kind of manifesto of what should be read my novel, which I find ridiculous and bombastic, so I'll just say that I shared with Appratto some theoretical framework, and the fact that most of my story developed in, nothing more and nothing less, 18 and Yaguarón ). Something was sure, or Apprato nor I had read our respective jobs. My novel-or a few weeks ago I started to like novel call was jealously guarded in a Word that never left the computer. Appratto the should be kept in a drawer, a pile of leaves handwritten computer, or who knows a why. I had not read any of his stuff, but a review that had been done to another of his books, It was night. The idea of \u200b\u200ba possible telepathy began to invade my hypothesis, and for a moment I began to fear the possibility Borges buy the book, read it and discover that begins exactly like mine.
The day after such a finding, without getting another, I decided to buy the book.
Luckily, they were passing some veneers and finished few reassuring, to see that the book was not as close as I imagined. If I can find some things in common, but the match was not override that terrified me. But here's the curious: the book was not equal to that has been writing, but if we return to something I had been obsessed in recent months-particularly since the beginning of spring. Basically one could say that this whole thing is based on waiting for a red light on the famous short corner Cord Center. The star gets a book of Adrian Iaies and start thinking about certain matches and what does it really mean that disc and those songs, what does the fact of having looked so long and find it in that moment, how to find the coagulant from that night she heard a car in Caramel, and now that I had just bought. But that question does not is solely on that, and leads to analytical dissection of what it means 18 and Yaguarón, which means the street beyond his street status and his name, which despite being only a name change all things. Appratto undertaken with such conviction that company, so nails and sweat struggle with and against the sense that at times seem to be to reach a truth, a truth that no philosopher had come: what it means to be a certain place, in a moment. Such is the insight that for a moment it seems that you made a hole in the dermis of the world, to show, among many shadows, fumes and screeching Gear Swiss watch system behind our curtains.
few weeks ago I was leaving the house of Mary. Lugano is a cobbled street and the height of 19 April a few jacarandas rise, that just before the summer begins long furiously all the leaves, puddles of lavender and the narrow lanes of the street. In this corner you face the Botanical Garden, with a nice nursing home (if that adjective conjunction with this noun is possible) on your right, and a strange brick house on the left. In that house was an old man taking a tea, with some difficulty lying in a hammock. The day was not sunny, but rather was generated a strange plastic feel that the cloudy sky, oddly dark, phosphorescent became more of lilac jacaranda. Then I also noticed that on 19 April, the foliage was particularly green, and I got to ask if something was wrong at the hearing. It was on this road uphill Suárez (with military checkpoints watching the presidential house watching a guy walked up), I began to invade a series of strange thoughts of mystical or pantheistic court that I never had been. I was never consuming mushrooms, or anything like that, but what it felt like a strange journey. He walked with his head pointing sky and as he watched the trees swaying in the wind drew conclusions as these trees are here since before I was born, to what extent are mere spectators rather than actors in all this. " We agree that these types of arguments are not terribly original, and at times seem media-hippie farts, but what struck me was not the nature of the conclusions, but the way I clung to them, the idea of \u200b\u200bactually seeing those trees understanding was something that I never knew know. And then came a smell of the air that reminded me to craft a home that was as a kid. The memory is easy, but I keep an odd number of elements satellites they are inseparable to such construction. Would have five years, was a holiday and I was enjoying the drawing of The Ghost Busters, a program that could not see my time preschool. I remember my parents told me I had the kind of craftsmanship. I remember a scarf and an autumnal air is the main pass that leads me to this chain Imagna. And I remember the place, a house with a bottom lined with leaves, a loft with yellow lights where we worked with clay and stuff. I remember it was dark and I wanted to do in clay a ballroom where she danced Icabot in the drawing of the Headless Horseman, which I loved and was afraid of the child. And I remember my grandfather bringing me to seek, a coup that occurred in the head, my impression imagining the pain of the blow to the roof of the bald smooth brick in the small hole that was left by a skin graft had to be added to the leg, after removal of a tumor in his leg. All this I came, rather, always comes when I smell that smell in the air. Smell is the sense adjacent to the unconscious. Hearing and vision are overcoded, and touch and taste he shares with them the ability to get an intermediary object to recreate a certain feeling in the moment it is needed (you can always retest old dishes, a can-as far as possibly returning to play the same surface). Instead, the smell is pure evanescence. There is virtually no way to confine odors, as claimed in Perfume Jean Baptiste Grenouille, that movie half romanticist exaggerated but something interesting that came out recently in film. The smell is something whimsical, and holds a very different odors, which are not usually locked in fragrances. For the same reason, certain smells are as a periphery, unable to be recreated, but appear when they want, like the fresh smell that I felt during that trip of a block of 19 April. Following these delusions metaphysical for a moment that I concluded that smell was enough to recreate a particular time, and that at some point could prove that past and present are not so split after all. For a moment I thought that even if you dig a little deeper, I could find a sort of time machine, but this is a thought to himself fully against a closed door, invisible.
is in this sense that I return to Appratto. The guy starts to weave a series of arguments, a thorough introspection that at times is about to reveal, open that door I just came to intuit. On page twelve of the book says: "Being in the center is like not to be nowhere is the beginning of a story that goes back, draw a picture in which a few points stand out, just for a second, have a place and then disappear to display others. It is the past insisted that they look at other ay (...) the space of paths allows time to think. The past? All the focus is on past, everything is the past. At the thought opened another space, a series of scenes: I saw walking around the IPA to drink beer in the corner, with my father in the Sybarite, eating a steak with fried egg and fries, in a bar across the street with cough loce class, going to the movies and paying the entry Trocadero there, on the left, waiting for the bus at the bus stop in front of the other cinema billboards across Day; entering the Faleria Yaguarón to purchase a gift, up the stairs of Jaque, above the palace Díaz. Each of these scenes is a reading of 18 and Yaguarón, a colored board just so that I acknowledge details of its presence, but not only of his presence, but what they were for me. It is like passing from indifference to diferncias and concentrate. At that point, as I see now the light fades. "
Everything is like a desperate search beyond the symbolic and come to grasp reality, but deep down we know that this is like hunting majuga hands.
Now I'm waiting to 522 in the September 21 stop in front of Biarritz Patio. I smell the sea, I see the sky at the edge of the night and hear Out of this world The cure, and I know it is coming a new chain of associations. And indeed, there are no stories, deep stories is a way of working the raw material that comes from disorderly continent do not even know. Some people called random, other causes that are mystical, religious, economic or psychological, I simply think there is a space between, a knot, a cross linking bastard lost and this song with this chick Bloodflowers unknown sits next to me at the stop, his purple nylon jacket and dark jeans, not mine within only the purple nylon jacket and dark jeans, an invisible point that connects their brands to the song, the smell of the sea that comes from the promenade with See Jungle of Bow Wow Wow, and also with those posters that were in the Dickens when was still a brilliant student of English, with those posters: Candbridge, Oxford, types windsurfing, Stonehage and that Thursday he had no class because it was not that movie that made us see why no one attended, Stormy White, the port The young sailors are Borrasca White at the beginning of film and a drawing he had done before going to class, two Mayan children riding a rhino, the story of two Mayan children who did mischief in Central filled with rhinos, juice boom and one night I asked my grandfather what censorship meant, thinking it was a sexy word when the word censorship did not have to do with any German, much less with government or media, when censored word was nothing more than that, a word written on a poster which featured a phosphorescent skull grabbing the neck of a chick.
And things like that.