Here there was a cuartiento. He was a starting cuartiento an electrician and ended with a reference to Pitol, the great Sergio Pitol. It was not good nor bad. But, given a choice, perhaps the same text would have asked to be bad. Resultón if possible. That was it: a text resultón, loose and accommodated. Another text, another well but when pierced its author produced discomfort, itching and burning without knowing why and without desire or time to find out. The problem might be the artwork, but this is, and is a clear attempt to excuse. It is more likely to blame the performance has been easy, masturbatory and early (and I do not speak of years but of minutes) of the writer. Well deserved it is so close. The bastard. For annoying. For wasting my time. By having private half-hour with my children. Because in those few minutes I could also have come with the bike. Or lie on the sofa, no matter what is broken. Or sit in the garden so that the pollen of murdering my mucous ended. For a fool. By asshole. So I destroyed it. I got into the account and clicked on delete entry. So, bang, bang. Get out, bastard. Click pierdetiempo. Puto cuartiento. Much easier than when we had to remove the paper from the typewriter and throw it in the corner. Just cheeky chi. And you're not. Cuartiento poor. Nor was that bad. To me what the saint to heaven I really liked. And the guardian angel. But you're not, you bastard. Since you're gone. No longer exist. You were a cuartiento more and for only 48 hours. O 36, I'm not sure. And nothing remains of you. In your place will be others, though not many, do not believe. But you're not. Idiot, idiot, heavy. Cuartiento bad. Go away and do not ever return.
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