- The Hoary
A new note. As soon as I put the notebook in the pocket I will no longer feel its weight in the jacket, but in the soul, after that many accumulated annotations. The words it contains weigh more than all the debris fallen from the towering skyscrapers of New York.
I can not say that my relationship with “the American” remains the same. My heart is getting soft when I hear his endless chats. Poor man, just a kiss from that girl with white hair and his whole being is soaked in it. A kiss in a infected Paris by tall flagpoles with hanged bodies on the banks of the Seine, that capital emblem of playful and romantic tourism that changed in few years to become the city of the pestilence.
Its been a while since I feel closer to this hated american, I feel we are even more alone together in this world of ashes. The seclusion this time, is more extensive than usually, the walks with this crazy man that came from the future, god knows how, are longer and more frequent. Many of them are now only in silence, sharing thoughts. His stories are no longer necessary for me to look at the flames from the top of the Chrysler Building. His poison is inside me.
“The Stains” I know he will return soon from Miami, from his world of art, exhibitions and laurels. The blank canvases are his ring and shackles. “The Hats” is lost in Buenos Aires but he will not be able to live without the stories of “The American”. Meanwhile I walk throught this great cage for crazies in Cienpozuelos in the company of this man who still lives attached to a single kiss of the white haired girl.