THE PASTELS.

I look through the window. The pastels colors in the sky claim the day is dancing his last song, before it's time to leave the party, go to sleep, and let the night take the lead and carry on.

The purple curtains, poorly improvised out of the most ineffective cheap sheer polyester fabric anyone could possibly find in a fabric store that I suspect is located in  Montmarte, somehow end up suiting the nostalgic feel of the moment, as they remind me so much to my imaginary version of a dull russian brothel. 

It's almost 10 p.m., and I've spent the day trying to withstand the suffocating heat of a parisian summer that feels much more weary than it's ever felt. I've had a fan pointing at me throughout the whole day, and I was barely able to do any action that would reasonably require any kind of complex muscle orchestration. I had barely enough strength to go to the kitchen for Coca-Cola, and for chewing some pastries I had previously bought in the local Monoprix's bakery.

I'm so lost somehow. And I always find myself in situations like this as soon as a project comes to an end, forcing me to find a new thing to amuse myself with. I feel strange, like inadequate. A subtle breeze makes the curtains dance languidly. I guess feeling trapped in the crooked little concrete oven my apartment became today, with now prospect of any kind of further entertainment, other than occasional visits to old blogs I no longer follow, and the well rehearsed act of periodically hitting the reload icon above Facebook's newsfeed page, are factors that might be leading me to the emotional and mental state.

I wanna sit by the window, listen to "Horses in my Dreams", and smoke a cigarette while I reflect about the current state of things. I'm still doubting on this being the right moment for that kind of insightfulness though.

Should I even be allowed to feel bumped up? Why is this always like this? You jump from expectations and excitement, to sourness and despair. I just remembered orgasms. Usually they are great. Everyone likes them, right? But have you ever had an orgasm, and felt like crying right after? I believe it happened to me at least twice in my life, and probably in very pivotal moments. It's ridiculously intimate, what I just said. I guess I just don't care that much. And besides, I believe there's only a hand full of people that's ever read this blog. 

I kind of have been circling around the idea that I'm not necessarily a happy person, and that I will never be. No matter how good life is, how healthy I'm blessed to be, how interesting my life or how amazing the people I've got with me are, I'll never feel completely happy. And this feeling of unsureness will carry on throughout my life, popping up just as soon as I'm done and I have the space to irrevocably reflect on such affairs.

I'm gonna go out. The heat as eased enough for me to be able to crawl out of this trap. I think fresh air will make me feel a lot better.

GENERAL PUBLIC.

I swear I feel nothing like writing in the straight-normal way. I swear I'm not in the mood for manufacturing overanalyzed short stories that the general public (If such thing exists) that follow this thingy (I love to say thingy) will be irrevocably able to easily follow through.

I won't just throw word randomly. But I won't be precise. I like imprecision today. For today just. Or maybe tomorrow I will as well. You never know. Tomorrow never knows.

So. Here is the thingy. Whirlwind. Just complete crazy-ass nonsense. Well, maybe I'm just dramatizing for the sake of  this blog's reputation (if such thing exists - the reputation, cause the blog definitely does).

I remember that a couple of days ago. Like, 8 days ago? Is that right brain? I think so. Is so hard to keep track of the time. So intangible. Wow, you can actually write it the same in spanish and it means the same thing, like chocolate (fuck, I sound like the girls from Clueless right there).

So. I got shit-faced with two guys in Broadway Market. Very cool kids. Really cool. We laughed, we slept, we went somewhere else and we eat tarts. And the tarts were for free cause the closing time was right around the corner, and the Chippy felt guilty on denying me my very first authentic and all Brit-like fish'n'chips dish.

I went back to my temporary home in Tottenham road, and slept my guts off.

I left the next day. I took the train and the lady sitting next to me had pink nail-polish, and told us that her son described her as preppy in his best-selling breakthrough new novel.

Hi new house. Hi beer. Hi mirror. Hi you!

Hi mr. heywazzup. Hi mr. can you walk for me? Hey you! Hey I'm twenty-two.

Hey I'm just bones. JUST FUCKING IN-YOUR-FACE BONES.

So don't come here, sporting that know-it-all cocky attitude. You are not real. You won't go out and play in the sun with the other kids cause you would break the spell and you wouldn't be a monster anymore and the movie would end a little bit too soon. Woooooow. I just lost it. So bad. My bet.

Ok. Can you walk for me? I love the phrase. Is just... so... summing up. It's the epitomization of this whole shit. We walk. 

Holly shit. I just went to the kitchen to get some Coca-Cola (pretty much the only thing I drink) and there was a girl sleeping there. A long legged sleeping beauty. 

I shouldn't be surprised. It happened yesterday again.

So... where was I? Nothing, just let's see. I rather not talk about this right now.

There's something I've always liked about necks. They are just so elegant. And they are sort of phallic as well. All that blood running through them. All those muscles holding four kilos of a head. 

Blue. Something borrowed, something blue. Every me and every you. Blue like me, blue like the sea, burry me.

The lights dance over the Amstel and I believe I was far too conditioned.

I couldn't help wondering. I'm a wonderer. Joy Division. That's cool.

Stalks. Like the ones acorn grow on. Acorns grow on stalks. Last night I talked about how appearances may deceive. Also accents. Also clothes and make-up and there you go.

I just looked up to the corner between the wall and the ceiling and felt it was extremely high. The ceiling keeps rising up and the room goes from a cube, to a very tall prism. And it makes me feel small. And the lightning is dull and scarcely provided by the monitor of my mac.

I feel in a horror one.

I just remembered. Dolphin. Dolphins in my dreams. Like waves, like the sea. There's dolphins in Rio de la Plata. Buenos Aires is such a strange place.

The belly button of hell.

I'm just beginning to think is time for me to stop mumbling thoughts and start crawling my bed back to the insides of my bed. It's raining outside. It's raining in Vincennes. I was thinking just yesterday, how cool it would be to go everywhere enrolled in a huge cozy stuffed blanket. Like in a cocoon. Like in No York, in the subway. With the hair dyed black and no shoes. And the light is greenish.

I'll get back to you guys soon. I promise. I have to. Wish me luck!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T6dQFKbXdJc&NR=1

TEETH.

The fish have fangs, and the dogs have pecks, and the birds have trunks, and I have you my baby alter-ego.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ayCPQaoGT2M&feature=player_embedded