Baby, we got on the roller coaster and everything began spinning. We were dizzy. It was almost 10 o'clock and we had own hands full of cold. It was us two, baby. You and I in the middle of the roller coaster, you and I in a totally insane sunday splashed with darkness. Baby, you and I, broken, fragile, demented. ******* up. With our *** cold. Happy under the rain in the roller coaster. I think you closed your eyes to touch with the tip of your fingers the black sky, the clouds, the rain and then you said that something wasn't going ok in the roller coaster, that it smelled like blood, and I told you to keep calm, that nothing was going on. The night smelled of blood, of wet newspaper, of liquor, of a just-fired pistol. Keep calm baby, I told you, every sunday is the same, but you insisted something was not ok and then you vomited and we look backwards and forewards and we were splashed by drops of blood and rain. Every passenger in the roller coaster had cut their veins and their blood was falling everywhere. Keep calm baby. You kept vomiting. The passengers were looking at the sky, they were with their arms opened and you said, what a nice way to die, keep calm baby, and you added that maybe that people dreamt of touching the sky and the clouds with the tip of their fingers and its better not to *****.

Don't depend on anyone,
because even if somebody cares a lot,
everybody is busy
trying to save themselves.

You are by yourself,
you need to make your own decisions
and start living your own reality.

People that follow
the dreams of someone else,
are the ones that die each day.

Let me see in your eyes if you have shattered dreams just like mine, come, crash against my flesh, destroy me, cut me into little pieces and take them, throw them away near those trees were we used to see each other when we finished each day, come and touch my ****, touch it, feel it, examine it, finish cracking my white *******, full of sad holes with nicotine and liquor love madness coffee black, I will always be waiting for you near a mirror so you can touch my body from behind from above from every angle with your hands, with your fingers, and my dear I'll always write your name in the mirror while you touch me, while you faint in my blood.

Alfred the world,
Alfred the world is a strange thing,
a warm ball,
a piece of heaven between the tooth
of a piece of day between the legs,
a broken sun between the white tong Alfred,
and I only wanted to clean with
the pink ******* of girls the broken glass of the days,
but in a few minutes the mirror would get ***** again
and everything was the same.

The smell of sadness is located in the mouth of the stomach, it's like you're always hungry of something, hungry of light, hungry of streets, hungry of night, hungry of everything, hungry of nothing, hungry of ****; it doesn't leave you alone, it burns and revolves around your stomach, traps all your words and doesn't let them come out.

Not only the lovers' hearts, because here everyone loves, the one that breaks every three pages; it's the tongs, the streets, the glasses, the cheekbones, the fists, the mouths, and mostly, the words.

You, Simon, were the boy; Simon was the night full of confusing, broken songs. Simon was having those red lips that spoke love words. Simon was not going to work the next day. Simon was having that horse smell near the liquor glasses. Simon was Boys Don't Cry at twelve p.m. Simon was a night full of rain while they gave the climate report on the radio. Simon was not knowing if it was Saturday or Sunday or Friday or Wednesday or any other day. Simon was staring at your eyes in the middle of those lights. Simon was not giving a ****. Simon was your hands filled with rain, your tooth full of secrets. Simon was saying I want to make love to you on the top of a high hill cultivated with red tomatoes during a summer morning. Simon was your hair sprinkled with sweat and color lights. Simon was my blue shirt and the cigarettes that were in my pocket. Simon was smoking next to you and letting the blue smoke impregnate in your assassin lips, those red lips. Simon was taking a needle and filling it with your slobber, with your scent and shooting it in my head. Simon was robbing a bank or a train in behalf of you, and leaving that name written all over the walls, the rails, the air, the grass. Simon was throwing up in a bathroom all the whiskey, thinking about you. Simon was writing your name with the rain. Simon was dipping a car in gasoline and whiskey and putting it on fire. Simon was being lonely without regrets in the middle of that bar that smelled like *****, like beer, like loneliness. Simon was you walking between the tables spreading a little bit of your name, a little bit of your scent. Simon was your hands full of glasses, full of coins, full of dreams, full of broken words. Simon was knowing that it was past midnight and that outside it was raining but it was hot. Simon was the taste of your mouth, that taste of road. Simon was dreaming about you in a beach full of children, sand and boats. Simon was a Sunday with you at the beach. Simon was taking you and licking your entire name, your entire body, your entire loneliness.