the problem is not so much that I've thrown a gypsy curse, which has returned to the ridiculous fight of my father in Seville with a Roma who wanted to read the fate of my mother and a racist past and fighting among the poorest of Spain, no, the problem would be that I need to know that the curse took effect, you went to a witch with a picture of me you brought of caraelibro and printed on Kodak Express, which were sticking pins me for two hours straight, you put the photo bore in the freezer of your refrigerator - and my grandmother did with the picture of Thatcher - who've been calling all those who say black magic and that the plane will take me to Lima is going to fall slowly but irresistibly, that first will come the shaking, which will fall after the oxygen masks, which I will start to feel the smell of pee next door, the lights of the airplane will die, they will turn, will die until the end, only the light from the sun descended gradually and farther, which I begin to feel the smell of my own pee, that while people scream and cry but most of all, dies of a heart attack, a patatús, I'm going to take a cigarette and think in the end I never stopped smoking and, finally, I'll realize that I was forced to leave the lighter at the office.
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