Effio Miguel Ruiz (Lima, 1977) studied Administration at the Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos. It has a dozen literary awards in competitions in the country. He was a finalist at the XII Biennial Story "Cope Award 2002" with the text Copyrights, and his first book, The room of suicide, won an honorable mention in the V National Short Story Competition 2004 of the Peruvian-Japanese Association. His stories have been included on compilations Damn my love. Tales and stories of love (Sign Three Editorial, Lima, 2002), Meeting new writers (Universidad Científica del Sur, Lima, 2004), "Rosewood Guitar" and the stories of winners and finalists "Cope Award 2002" (Ediciones Cope, Lima, 2005), Dissident: Sample of the new Peruvian narrative (Revuelta Publishers, 2007), were born to lose. Just stories (Editorial Casatomada, 2007) and electronic journals and Heritage Project of Five Poets. He was recently awarded the First Municipal Narrative Competition Note to The Victoria (2008) Links: The last refuge of the 2006 edition ( http:// www.letras.s5.com/mre110906.htm ).
The route of Samson in the 2007 edition ( http://www.letras.s5.com/mre100507.htm )
American Literary Magazine ( http://www.lospoetasdelcinco.cl/14/page23.html )
COPYRIGHT
Sitting at the typewriter, I accept with resignation that seems to be my inescapable destiny. How would being in another skin, dream the dreams of ordinary mortals, but it is written that my life is this nightmare, this inexplicable appropriation of alien memories. Right now I'm a usurper of the fate of men, now is Gabriel, then ... I write without conviction, and paraded through my mind images of those western movies where the hero is released without fear on the back of a runaway horse, to try to control it. I like him, somehow. I have but I fear: fear of what happens next, afraid that this does not end here. Write two words, but I doubt I regret starting, and finally scored the bus climbed slowly, almost mechanically checked the pockets of his jacket to find his ticket, he read LIMA-CHICLAYO. For a moment I think about ending it all (it's two in the morning, this is crazy) and go to sleep, but sleep is not an escape, is like having front me a deck of cards and every day discovered one, without knowing whether it will be red or black, or spades, or hearts, or worse. Continue: He sat at the window to smoke, I know that every word you choose has to be right, somehow there's a way I have to find areas that I should not tread, like the game of Minesweeper . How is it that this is happening, how would being in another skin, how to sleep and would not dream, not feeling, not thinking ...
1
all started a year ago, a night like any other, ie a large meal before bed and a nightmare that falls under its own weight. Do not remember exactly the dream, but I felt close, very me but did not know what it was: I woke up at midnight crying without knowing why. The next morning recovered some images of sleep, but too vague to find meaning: I was walking in an empty temple, I was sitting on a bench waiting for something that did not arrive and so distressed me. I gave it much thought and matter, straining to remember more details, other nights I went to overeating before bedtime, but the nightmare never again. I have not mentioned yet that I am a writer and the reason for my obsessive quest was the feeling that I missed the possibility of a great story, and at last I decided to imagine what he could not remember, anyway I always thought that an entirely imagined is more valuable as a building based solely on events experienced. So I wrote a story called LIKE TO FORGET, a text of almost twenty pages whose protagonist is a young man named Gabriel (later give details about the argument, now seems more important to refer the genesis of my story). The opening lines came to my mind as a revelation, after I read them that the only way I could start the text was as follows: Then he will say that dreams are also part of life, which eventually become memories as dreams, and that so happened to us. However, I was not totally satisfied with the rest, had anything into this text written in third person, something that did not convince me. I knew that was not how I meant it would have to correct the style, may change the sequence of events, shortening some and deleting others. But the days passed and I went aside, other concerns distract my attention, and that text was less important compared to new ones that I wrote, despite that I knew I had a good story in my hands. I never let my drafts to be read before becoming a finished text, true to this tradition, I hid the story in my private papers, and decided to wait for the time I returned to him or to interpose between us definitely oblivion.
2
met Nadia at the Faculty of Arts of San Marcos, was a pretty little girl, eyes narrowed, as if looking through the rain, I wrote once about it-and few freckles dotted her face, her low voice was a whisper that carried the words from afar (or from another time, with her never know how to say) and had something to chuckle easily contagious joy. Studied together the first two cycles of the race for Literature, and during that time we were almost inseparable, not because there was something more than friendship between us, but rather because we had similar tastes and preferences in terms of film and theater, and we shared the same passion for classical music, and while she was leaning more to the ballet and photography while I worked almost exclusively to literature, were these small differences that enriched our discussions, because we were allowed to listen to each other. Had a professional camera carrying everywhere when I think I remember her asking that we stop to photograph an old beggar who shows his smile of decayed (This is going to call DESOLATION, told me that once) or see recording images of trees that are languishing in crowded avenues and wet stones glowing in the middle of flooded streets. I dreamed of photographing the sadness, the years and their failed attempts have confirmed my suspicion that such an ambitious undertaking is impossible.
always late for our dates (which frankly exasperated me) and although generally had a valid excuse to excuse (some traffic congestion or something like that) was very concerned about what I might think about it. At the time we spent together I discovered that she was different from me other details: she liked to read, but very large texts, prose dense or baroque caused him fatigue, you were bored, for example, when we had to study them, Classics as the Divine Comedy or Don Quixote, and showed little interest in Anglo-Saxon literature courses and French literature. So I was not surprised he left the race only half of the third cycle, and then apply for the Catholic, but this time to Engineering. I was not surprised, but I was saddened. I confess that I always had a weakness for it: in all that time we spent together I learned to love quietly, without asking anything or hint what I felt. With the passage of time, I was resigned to live near her but knew it would be alien to my life, and was perhaps this that gave birth to that bond between us is just like love, but at the same time is so far it is impossible to confuse him. I kept frequented: almost every week expecting to finish their classes to go to lunch together or talk, was in some way, an effort to prevent the extinction of the feeling at that moment we had together. Just one of those evenings I was introduced to Gabriel: I was sitting to the library, where we always expected it, when I saw it came with a young man who looked more like chase. Now I think it was jealousy I felt at that moment that precipitated this impression, I mention it because the closer I noticed a formal deal yet between them. He is Gabriel Mendoza, Nadia told me, and I remembered that I had already spoken before him, vaguely perhaps, but I think this was another impression of mine: she told me she had a friend who also wrote and I do not want to hear more jealous that there was a type that could disclose their vocation, when instead I cost me so much that he kept in reserve (only Nadia and one of my sisters had read my text.) Alberto Cisneros, introduced myself, extending his hand in greeting weary thought perceive the will of a puppet. Her black eyes, as well infinite, narrow face, a smile as outlined by compromise. Nadia told me to write "I went (I remember that I sang the words with compassion, and to minimize it) -, I'd like to read any of your text, I said hypocritically. We parted, he thanked me for my interest in his work, and I remember I never saw him until seven months ago, when my nightmare began.
I had forgotten many things, including several stories that today are half had postponed my personal interests and start to get used to the idea of \u200b\u200bthinking and feeling as two. After many evenings waiting for Nadia encouraged me to confess my love, and she accepted, she said yes, if you ever imagined sharing your life with someone, it was me, and since that day the world seemed smaller, Surprisingly, more alive. The expected almost every day after school, listened to discuss their work, their setbacks, and sometimes their friends. Mentioned repeatedly Gabriel (says it is trying to write a story about, just finished one about is correcting which I mentioned the other day), but I did not care. He considered a decorative object in the life of Nadia. After all studied together, it was natural for him and alluded to some extent, it was logical. But one evening he came to announce that Gabriel had competed and won third place in the Floral Games of the Universidad Ricardo Palma, what does upset me, and even more so when I read the article in the university magazine which contained the name of your story awarded: SIMILAR TO OBLIVION (there, said that the young writer had stated tersely that he was inspired by personal experience.) Nadia asked me to get the text of Gabriel, two days after trayéndomelo wine (she did not know my story and I had not mentioned it because I needed to fix) breezed the opening lines: Then say that dreams are also part of life, that with time the memories and dreams become , and that this happened to us ... I read every line, I reviewed each leaf for half an hour not attended to Nadia, I looked scared and asked me questions, but there were no answers ...
was my story.
always late for our dates (which frankly exasperated me) and although generally had a valid excuse to excuse (some traffic congestion or something like that) was very concerned about what I might think about it. At the time we spent together I discovered that she was different from me other details: she liked to read, but very large texts, prose dense or baroque caused him fatigue, you were bored, for example, when we had to study them, Classics as the Divine Comedy or Don Quixote, and showed little interest in Anglo-Saxon literature courses and French literature. So I was not surprised he left the race only half of the third cycle, and then apply for the Catholic, but this time to Engineering. I was not surprised, but I was saddened. I confess that I always had a weakness for it: in all that time we spent together I learned to love quietly, without asking anything or hint what I felt. With the passage of time, I was resigned to live near her but knew it would be alien to my life, and was perhaps this that gave birth to that bond between us is just like love, but at the same time is so far it is impossible to confuse him. I kept frequented: almost every week expecting to finish their classes to go to lunch together or talk, was in some way, an effort to prevent the extinction of the feeling at that moment we had together. Just one of those evenings I was introduced to Gabriel: I was sitting to the library, where we always expected it, when I saw it came with a young man who looked more like chase. Now I think it was jealousy I felt at that moment that precipitated this impression, I mention it because the closer I noticed a formal deal yet between them. He is Gabriel Mendoza, Nadia told me, and I remembered that I had already spoken before him, vaguely perhaps, but I think this was another impression of mine: she told me she had a friend who also wrote and I do not want to hear more jealous that there was a type that could disclose their vocation, when instead I cost me so much that he kept in reserve (only Nadia and one of my sisters had read my text.) Alberto Cisneros, introduced myself, extending his hand in greeting weary thought perceive the will of a puppet. Her black eyes, as well infinite, narrow face, a smile as outlined by compromise. Nadia told me to write "I went (I remember that I sang the words with compassion, and to minimize it) -, I'd like to read any of your text, I said hypocritically. We parted, he thanked me for my interest in his work, and I remember I never saw him until seven months ago, when my nightmare began.
I had forgotten many things, including several stories that today are half had postponed my personal interests and start to get used to the idea of \u200b\u200bthinking and feeling as two. After many evenings waiting for Nadia encouraged me to confess my love, and she accepted, she said yes, if you ever imagined sharing your life with someone, it was me, and since that day the world seemed smaller, Surprisingly, more alive. The expected almost every day after school, listened to discuss their work, their setbacks, and sometimes their friends. Mentioned repeatedly Gabriel (says it is trying to write a story about, just finished one about is correcting which I mentioned the other day), but I did not care. He considered a decorative object in the life of Nadia. After all studied together, it was natural for him and alluded to some extent, it was logical. But one evening he came to announce that Gabriel had competed and won third place in the Floral Games of the Universidad Ricardo Palma, what does upset me, and even more so when I read the article in the university magazine which contained the name of your story awarded: SIMILAR TO OBLIVION (there, said that the young writer had stated tersely that he was inspired by personal experience.) Nadia asked me to get the text of Gabriel, two days after trayéndomelo wine (she did not know my story and I had not mentioned it because I needed to fix) breezed the opening lines: Then say that dreams are also part of life, that with time the memories and dreams become , and that this happened to us ... I read every line, I reviewed each leaf for half an hour not attended to Nadia, I looked scared and asked me questions, but there were no answers ...
was my story.
3
The story is quite simple in its argument, seeing it now as if alien to me, to me seems too traditional. It is written in simple, almost conversational, in the manner of an interior monologue, as a memento displayed only a few minutes to knowledge of the reader (here I must add that it is written in first person, he remembered his smile stayed with me I whispered to say goodbye) This effect gives the story an air of intimacy, sincere confession (and this is one of its virtues), but also leads him to exaggerate in the use of epithets too worn, such as blue sky, her sweet lips, etc. . (And this, I realize only now that I read as if it were mine), or do not lead anywhere (like when it occupies a paragraph to describe the feeling that makes you contemplate the baroque walls of the Church of La Merced, ie who cares.) In the best paragraphs may notice some disturbing cacophony phrases (I'm astonished at you, for example) or rhyming words (... wanted to banish my solitude, cure my nostalgia, perhaps even give me a bit of magic) and redundant structures that should be corrected (dotted the most obvious: there was no evidence to indicate). His narrative (which mine is) sinking in large rooms, loses his way, abounds in minor details. But yes, it's my story, and this is an idea that I can not boot from the head, is what he had in mind, is written as I would have done: with my style with what I consider my prose virtues and his defects, but this has much to do with the plot. The protagonist (I imagined it, but he refers to himself) comes one day at the Church of La Merced in the late morning and stopping to pray in front of the Virgin of Guadalupe discovers a young woman weeping in silence. For interest or compassion (either specify it) Gabriel is about the girl, offers a handkerchief, a few comments to help you feel better and asks her name. Katty, she says, but after Gabriel was asked if I have told the truth, it is very easy to invent a name and be someone else, even for a few minutes. It is near noon, are to close the temple, Gabriel offers his company and she accepts. Well, where, she asked him and Katty says Over there. Come out slowly, she seems in no hurry to get somewhere, so go around the streets of downtown Lima (while will tell you who was crying for his mother, who died a year ago and who always remembered for his devotion to the Virgin of Guadalupe) until Katty Gabriel asks where you live and you know your calls take me home. This is where, for example, occurs one of those aberrations of which I spoke before, because we report the trip in a bus almost full (he touches the hand of the girl and she does not flinch, and suddenly hugs her, she smiles) from the point of view of Gabriel, describe their feelings, anxieties, and recreation and then warm unexpected turn out of our hands, the phrases become unconvincing, the noise of the bus does not get off the whisper of your words, you also hear me, and still do not understand why, poetic prose succumbs to the simple metaphor simile predictable tiny hand and caress your skin feel your peach. Gabriel comes home, is a department within a building, there is a long corridor of access and they are holding hands (Here there is an intimate dialogue between the two, perhaps should have occurred before, but we managed to salvage the situation for what to expect). Gabriel hugs and kisses the girl, she turns away his face and challenges him with his eyes, but not escape, he kisses her again, and Katty is abandoned at the time. These lines are, in my opinion, the most subtle of the text, and contain some moments originalis (... to discover your lips, wet mills and slow, furious fighting inside my mouth), but they are only two paragraphs of no more than fifteen lines each, and then turn to the dialogues between them (very little work) and the lengthy description the passing of time, kisses and caresses. Comes time to say goodbye, have left to spend two hours in that passage, is just fix the place, date and time of their next game (I knew the wait would be difficult, they hate each minute that separated me from that day, I knew that after three days I would be hard to remember his face and would need to see her, but sensed that something bad would happen). The story ends when Gabriel goes to the appointment, but she never arrives.
I have read over and over again the story of Gabriel and compared it with mine, but my text is narrated in third person and in his first words are the same (only I have found some differences in synonymy, and when I say tender words and he said sensitive words, or when replaced with the long and futile wait for my long phrase, the useless standby), the argument is Likewise, the outcome is unique and inescapable. But his text is a testimony I have taken mine a dream. Maybe that's why it pales before that, but I constantly repeat the stories are identical. I have asked myself over and over again if my imagined story is more valuable than the text of Gabriel, which is basically the transcript of a story, and especially I was surprised questioned as he may I have lived the dream. For now, several months after that night, I clearly remembered my dream, and I know when I thought to imagine what he could not remember was actually writing from the unconscious, and I guess that while I wrote the story (I confess that I shudder to note this) Gabriel lived.
I have read over and over again the story of Gabriel and compared it with mine, but my text is narrated in third person and in his first words are the same (only I have found some differences in synonymy, and when I say tender words and he said sensitive words, or when replaced with the long and futile wait for my long phrase, the useless standby), the argument is Likewise, the outcome is unique and inescapable. But his text is a testimony I have taken mine a dream. Maybe that's why it pales before that, but I constantly repeat the stories are identical. I have asked myself over and over again if my imagined story is more valuable than the text of Gabriel, which is basically the transcript of a story, and especially I was surprised questioned as he may I have lived the dream. For now, several months after that night, I clearly remembered my dream, and I know when I thought to imagine what he could not remember was actually writing from the unconscious, and I guess that while I wrote the story (I confess that I shudder to note this) Gabriel lived.
4
I decided to forget the matter and decided that seek an explanation of what had happened was simply futile task, and also there was nothing to do since Gabriel had been officially recognized as the author of LIKE TO FORGET, even though he knew that the text was also (too?) mine. I decided to follow my happiness recent experience: I decided to live precious moments with Nadia, endearing anecdotes to build his side, and back to my forgotten talent for writing. Had missed several months (almost six) since the last text, I decided to write something really good. Just one of those nights I stayed up late at the home of college friends, eating, drinking and singing, I had to find a taxi to take me back to my house from Surco, in Balconcillo. The driver took me down streets that had hitherto been unknown to me: we went Malachowsky, Copernicus, Gozzoli and others with flower names and unsung heroes who do not remember now, and was perhaps the liquor he had drunk that awoke within me the feeling I was being kidnapped or perhaps lead to a harsh corner. I said nothing, of course, the driver dropped me off at my destination without any problems and had to rest of drunkenness in order to pass me the strange impression. But that same night I had a very strange dream, and from this experience HOMECOMING wrote a short story where the protagonist into a taxi and started a lively conversation with the driver, to the point it ceases to look around: the vehicle is traveling on narrow streets and unknown tal vez olvidadas por la mayoría de transeúntes, pero el protagonista no se inmuta, nunca percibe nada raro; de pronto el taxi se estaciona en un lugar oscuro, junto a unos árboles (hay un poste de luz, pero el foco está quemado, la calle está sin pavimentar); es recién en ese momento cuando el tipo pregunta Pero adónde me ha traído, y el taxista no responde: a través de las lunas opacas del vehículo ven acercarse un par de sombras, quizá una de ellas lleva una navaja o un cuchillo, y lo balancea al compás del sonido que produce el claxon.
Pensé que la historia me había quedado redonda; había, sin embargo, un par de detalles que corregir, frases que se podían mejorar. Varias weeks I have been looking to replace an adjective to another, see almost all sections of the dictionary to find words to express more precisely what he meant, and when was the last correction to be done I called Nadia.
-Fair was about to call you just said he heard my greeting, and seemed happy. I want you to accompany me to college: I will get a prize. He called his work
DESOLATION had won the prize for photography of the Floral Games. She had proposed to participate in the Short Story category, but for that time I still had no text ready. When I got home to accompany was still quite excited and, above all, nerve. I was happy for her, and seeing well, so surprised, so fragile, gave me a special feeling of tenderness, his glassy eyes looked me over and over again, and I could only smile knowing that it probably was not enough. Upon arrival we sat in the central area of \u200b\u200bthe auditorium, I was in such good humor that I did not care when Gabriel came and sat next to us, even I was amused to see the big band that had stuck in his forehead.
- Why?
"A bad time, but after all I was able to take advantage," he replied Gabriel, caressing a briefcase he carried in hands. He looked like a child with her new toy.
- You also won? I asked, surprised.
- Did not I tell? Interrupted Nadia, who was sitting between Gabriel and I, Gabriel won the story contest.
She grabbed the briefcase and hit me, I sensed what was going to find, but still opened it and read:
HOMECOMING, by Gabriel Mendoza
The ceremony began and from there I knew nothing more, remember Nadia smiled and I pretended to be happy, I also have shaken hands with Gabriel at some point, I remember the applause, cameras and questions, the laconic speech of the young man who played forward and admitted that until then had only transcribed personal experiences, and remember, above all, the violent beating inside my chest, my hands sweat and my neck, terrible suffocation caused me not wanting to think or do not understand or could not erase from my mind the only thought that came and went like a heavy pendulum: This can not be happening, it's crazy ...
Pensé que la historia me había quedado redonda; había, sin embargo, un par de detalles que corregir, frases que se podían mejorar. Varias weeks I have been looking to replace an adjective to another, see almost all sections of the dictionary to find words to express more precisely what he meant, and when was the last correction to be done I called Nadia.
-Fair was about to call you just said he heard my greeting, and seemed happy. I want you to accompany me to college: I will get a prize. He called his work
DESOLATION had won the prize for photography of the Floral Games. She had proposed to participate in the Short Story category, but for that time I still had no text ready. When I got home to accompany was still quite excited and, above all, nerve. I was happy for her, and seeing well, so surprised, so fragile, gave me a special feeling of tenderness, his glassy eyes looked me over and over again, and I could only smile knowing that it probably was not enough. Upon arrival we sat in the central area of \u200b\u200bthe auditorium, I was in such good humor that I did not care when Gabriel came and sat next to us, even I was amused to see the big band that had stuck in his forehead.
- Why?
"A bad time, but after all I was able to take advantage," he replied Gabriel, caressing a briefcase he carried in hands. He looked like a child with her new toy.
- You also won? I asked, surprised.
- Did not I tell? Interrupted Nadia, who was sitting between Gabriel and I, Gabriel won the story contest.
She grabbed the briefcase and hit me, I sensed what was going to find, but still opened it and read:
HOMECOMING, by Gabriel Mendoza
The ceremony began and from there I knew nothing more, remember Nadia smiled and I pretended to be happy, I also have shaken hands with Gabriel at some point, I remember the applause, cameras and questions, the laconic speech of the young man who played forward and admitted that until then had only transcribed personal experiences, and remember, above all, the violent beating inside my chest, my hands sweat and my neck, terrible suffocation caused me not wanting to think or do not understand or could not erase from my mind the only thought that came and went like a heavy pendulum: This can not be happening, it's crazy ...
5
Only the certainty that, despite everything, I kept some control of the situation prevented them from committing more crazy large. I wanted to scream that Gabriel was a mere imitation, a sad and pathetic echo of my writing, but I reflected that it would not help, he finally had received the recognition it has long I longed for me. Besides, I had never spoken more than five minutes with him and we had limited simply to generic issues, themes dictated more by politeness and good manners rather than by any sympathy or friendship relationship. Only once answered his call at the home of Nadia, and communicate with it before I asked if I was writing something new: Nothing at the moment, replied, mostly what I write is based on my experiences, and lately I have not thought of anything worthy of being written. I thought it made sense: I had not touched a typewriter since I attended that final awards. Do not tell anyone of the matter, nor mentioned it to Nadia: I knew it would be difficult to explain and ultimately not believe me, or just think I was getting carried away by some kind of jealousy.
may know who was alone in this is what led me to devise this plan, so clumsy and lacking in form at first, but now as safe to run that far I will come clean and apart from everything. This is another thing to thank Nadia, because it was she who gave me (unknowingly, of course) chance. We agree that it would come to my house today at eight, taking advantage of my parents and my sisters have left Lima: this would at last moment of privacy that we all need the two (with all that has passed I neglected a lot, I admit, but I hope this will end soon.) A seven-thirty called to say I could not come at the appointed time, he was in the terminal with a group of college friends saying goodbye to Gabriel. I traveled to Chiclayo.
"His family filed its story came home to a competition there," she told me. Won second prize. I pretended
annoyed by this setback, and I felt jealous, not that anyone was firing him instead of him to come with me (after all there were several boys who were accompanying him, surely would have convinced), but that Gabriel had regained with a story, only I knew, "was mine.
"But I just get it over with you, my love. Do not worry. Well
. Since we ...
may know who was alone in this is what led me to devise this plan, so clumsy and lacking in form at first, but now as safe to run that far I will come clean and apart from everything. This is another thing to thank Nadia, because it was she who gave me (unknowingly, of course) chance. We agree that it would come to my house today at eight, taking advantage of my parents and my sisters have left Lima: this would at last moment of privacy that we all need the two (with all that has passed I neglected a lot, I admit, but I hope this will end soon.) A seven-thirty called to say I could not come at the appointed time, he was in the terminal with a group of college friends saying goodbye to Gabriel. I traveled to Chiclayo.
"His family filed its story came home to a competition there," she told me. Won second prize. I pretended
annoyed by this setback, and I felt jealous, not that anyone was firing him instead of him to come with me (after all there were several boys who were accompanying him, surely would have convinced), but that Gabriel had regained with a story, only I knew, "was mine.
"But I just get it over with you, my love. Do not worry. Well
. Since we ...
* * *
I dropped my head on the desk, hands on the keys due to the typewriter. How would having no conscience, no vestige of that voice that later, "I know, I reproach that I am committing the crime. Who gave me the power to decide the fate of at least one individual, to me, I'm not better than anyone? The one who did, do you believe can pull the strings without letting myself be carried away by weakness attributable to common human being? No response to my questions, no one says a road clear for my doubts. Once more I am convinced that I am alone in this, and I have fear. Pass the hours, the tears, the anxiety of finding guilty, but all will pass over me, under me, even through me. I'm untouchable, unsuspecting owner the fate of men, but as a god I improvised and corruptible, easy prey to my emotions and conveniences.
I count as a story as sad as a story whose end was severely truncated, I will face sorrowful, look sorry, halfhearted gestures. One by one tell me the details I already know, I named the place, I shall indicate the time, maybe just tell me some details of the epilogue, useless minutiae that no longer suited to the story, but anyway. I go with the character until his last moments, his final journey to the unexpected departure forced him to do, and I will devote some final words, some unknown intimate prayer and improvise within me for my peace, for my salvation.
But that will be much later. Now I can just continue what we started: The bus seemed cold, impersonal, may have wished that the guy next to you talk, ask him something he had to answer a courtesy.
The phone rings (there are two in the morning). Writing interrupt a moment to answer: "I'm Nadia
" says the voice of the phone. I know it's late. "I can come see you or were you sleeping?
"Of course not, come. Have you been?
"Yes. We accompanied him to the bus departed. He touched her sit by the window, as I wanted ... Well, I'm with you in an hour. Maybe your company
help me forget the remorse, perhaps his caresses and kisses to delete images in my head swarming insects, such as flammable paper butterflies. Maybe help me not to think, to erase the memory of last year: Gabriel lights a cigarette and aims to snuff pleasure smoke, throws it slowly. Do not know what the meaning of their life, and for once no one cares. I write for the first time without knowing the path of the story: I only know that the runaway horse trots now under my control, Gabriel travels on a bus to Chiclayo, and then a few paragraphs I'll invent as I write (words that are mere fillers, which are a pretext to get where I want to get there) I'll do it melted down in the treacherous curves Pasamayo.
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