Today I woke up hating you. The best way of starting the day. I choke on the breakfast of the champions, there are dead pigeons in the muesli and a finger in the milk. The nail has black polish. I promise I will buy another brand. I yawn. Even if I slept all my remaining hours, these wrinkles in the mirror would not go away. Last night is still a puddle in my lungs. I cough blood, coagulated in petals made of something that was once blue. Behind my eyes well up faces reflected in stains of absinth. I don’t know how many they are, failed mathematics. They are blurred by the gray smoke of a cigar that I smoke in my dreams. The golden apples of the sun are exposed in the black market, they are worth less than an organ in certain countries.
I’m in a sulk. Snow white has a bad day.
The morning unfolds before me a paradise of red legs. The windows in the office mist up. I recognize in the breath those words that I don’t dare to say, those that end up buried between lines, waiting for another voice to rescue them and give them to other ears that maybe, just maybe, never deserved them. I forgot how to count the hours. Simple operations. I discover a pair of blue shoes bogged down at the shore of a sea called routine. My feet get wet, but I manage to throw them away. They sink. I know that the tide will bring them back to me.
The road tastes like divorce. The wheel, like coffin. The housing states pull up their skirts. Below them there are panties from the brand Gulag. Someone has padded the walls with clocks. The loneliness stares at me from a picture where Jesus Christ dies. The day finishes. The television calls me whore, whore, whore. I blush. I check the time, but I don’t recognize the hour. The minimalism of forms takes revenge of my body. I try to estimate how much is left until I wake up again hating you. Wrong results. I lean forward and backward, humming music composed for astronauts. I want out, but I don’t know out of where. Behind a door that hasn’t been built yet, a man’s voice whispers: this is the first night of the rest of your life.
The day-after-day is more complicated than it seems.