Rocha always rained. No rain stopped. Clusters became cumulus congestus and cumulus congestus became cumulonimbus. Poseidon fought fervently against the human and earthly control over the sea and lost. I fought bravely, I stayed in the water raging against the defiant sounds of the man dressed in a sweatshirt, orange shorts and whistle in his mouth. I fought all my friends running in desperation to a goat, leaving my backpack Richard Ford flooded with desperate winds of sand, pretending women 40 25. But I lost. And then I kept fighting. They called me a fanatic. I drew in the sand like an individual red, a refrigerator full of plastic that was painted with blue marker Aguante San Justo, yellow and white umbrella, a thermos and a shuffleboard.
Back in Buenos Aires, I thought, naively we had made a truce. Poseidon and I would have joined at some point and would enjoy the water distributed, almost like an exercise in divorce. Summers for me and the rest for you. It was a good bargain. But the gods have that mortals do not realize that summer lasts longer than that during your vacation.
also hate the writers. I hate the principal of the school that claims to have the model, which speaks of the five pillars model that explains the most complex part of the most simple and does not stop talking about his only film, which I did not see and did not see. We stayed an hour and a half longer than planned because it rained. She said it was like in Cuba, it was a hurricane and rain and was leaving the area. Showed the terrace, the viewpoint of storms and commented on the position of the palm as a sign of his knowledge. I hated since we started talking until the palm began to rock again.
I got up and went and I thought that if I say that this blonde curls will be my companion, probably, begin to love the director hurricane. When I left, I lit a cigarette and waited and finally stopped raining subsided. I walked quiet, serene way, as she called and asked Major change of plans and Chinese food. A half block away, ran and I was soaked. Every corner meant a decision. I took them all wrong. In each, went to the back leg never properly calculated the depth and always left with the slipper dripping.
Corrientes When I arrived, I called Majo and demanded a new change of plans. I go to my house, I'm wet and I become sick. In the distance I see the 65. To drink, sink legs again in a tumultuous river, then another and finally way between the headlights of cars on several occasions almost glide over my body. I climb, I ask a collective boat ticket and laugh. They laugh at me, obviously, and my constant dripping. I'm in the background. I look at all the passengers. We are partners of tragedy. We are the tsunami survivors. And we secretly joined the talks of survivors. Mankind has never left me. I love you all.
Outside more rain. When I think that corner is getting a boatload of animals, or Moby Dick, with its deformed jaw, 65 stops. Everything is stopped. The tsunami disaster was followed by the terrorist attack. My fellow survivors begin to hide their supplies, desperate phone call asking for explanations or making excuses, take the head and watch the river stopped cars in contrast to the Heraclitean movement of the river in Corrientes. On the Avenida Corrientes.
Time passes. A 60-year old gets up at a 30 cediéndose each seat. A director, who tells his shooting script to finally kisses her and calls his girlfriend to tell her to stay in the house of a friend. In fact, they are both at La Plata. But will never, ever again to hear Charlie's Drive Shaft fame. No one understands what happens. For 30 minutes the bus is stopped. We hate and distrust in state hobesssiano. The poetry of rain, the Conchuda even said the director. I meditate. I take off the headphones. I still wet. I meditate. I concentrate. People walk aimlessly among the cars. Buy juices, sandwich cookies, sweets. Going forward, sideways and back. Outsiders also walk and ask for money. In his car, detained for forty-five minutes, everyone believes to be just as bad as them. Pass Boga, eternal militant Education, with a shirt of a Social Forum in Porto Alegre, shouting that Macri Carnval Venice brought to Buenos Aires. I come down and hug him.
In fact, low. We calculate the newly formed couples a strategy. Do not step never there. Pisa there. Then turn around behind the bus and go out to the middle of the street. Never to the sidewalk. Remember, cooperatively, missing in the sewers. We do not want to be recognized by our backpack. Finally, they balk. Do not go down. It was obvious. Do not want to leave the security of being wet, from the prison, having no choice. Down is for them, have the option of not deceive their partners. Manga queers, and I mumbled the plan to the letter. Not that I escape from the ideal location to experience the love of your life. (How did you meet? Raining ....) It is not anymore.
without the ground floor and I am so free that I bristle the hairs on your arm. No, I have the wet shirt. Camino decided Corrientes. Step between cars and intimately think they're all stupid, stuck there, with their damn property, their greed and envy of the poor boy from the 4x4, so soy it. Confident in overcoming fearful nature of man, crossed Juan B. Right. Just then another begins lake. Huge. In the middle, a fire truck short everything. Police. Mucha. Better they reach the Prefecture. Wishing for my steps. Juan B. Fair is the deep end of the pool. To either side. Corrientes way, took Darwin. Anything is possible. Only the neighbors who came to discuss the tragedy. Way, one, two, three blocks away. Juan B. Right is worse. While I get to the fourth block, I see that there is nothing beyond that grungy long lake. There is no end. There is no "the other side." I'm surrounded. We live on an island with people who do not know but which I must take care. When I come to Corrientes, the corners are joined by those who see the tragedy. As I return to speak to Major, who I recommend ordering a taxi and I ask for a helicopter, Mr. Ibarra cry again.
Step in front of the house Idez. I need to go. I'm wet, water drips I'm a version of the Lake Monster. A bad version. I call it? I reach the edge of Juan B. Fair and soy are the 4x4 and lynch him. In general, the arguments boil down to: half an hour ago and I'm here, motherfucker, you do not pass. Revenge at its best. Nobody will if I'm not going. The 4x4 decide: either lynch me, myself and my fellow soy, or put it to navigate. The places to sail. Four perch on the fender and there it goes. Open water. It is the first in a long time passing. The people looked at the shore. As it happens, we ourselves. Arrives. We
8. We should carry torches. Or should we walk like zombies. But anyway, the light outage, which is not reflected in the lake, turns everything into a horror movie. The water is warmer than in La Pedrera. Rather less cold. A woman (not a blonde curls) grabs me, I take the hand going forward and so, as a Jewish dance, move slowly Corrientes. At halfway, when the water reaches my knees, I do always. I think if it is what I'm doing. Clearly that is something no friend mine would have. In fact, there is only one who did it. Is that going to put flowers in the Pacific Raceway.
One of the fugitive cries out for a rat. I scream do not worry. The jellyfish are tame here. Before the water over the genitals shrink me, water falls and salvation after a block and a half like Finding Nemo, arrived in something wet. I look at the water, such as like me, so churro that lives at the bottom of the Corrientes River winks at me, before turning into Poseidon. Fucking earth shaker. You missed a contest, wimp. I take off my shoes, socks and squeezed me while I believe we are in Rocha shore, I see him walking Idez and tells me and obviously had to be there.
We had a beer at a bar with ping pong. Perhaps it would be too emphatic to say that I dropped a full glass of beer in his pants.
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