My eyes look different. My eyes feel angry and moments do not recognize myself in the mirror. Inside, everything seems to sound in mono . Enter two types of counters oily-looking with them letting the bars of a ballad-eighties metal. Drunk comment on the ass of a dance. Another wiggles on a dirty bar under a rickety light. The types and have their tickets pulled enjoy planning something similar between a woman, which they say will make the two if they share their coca. I wet the face trying to take away the nausea and difficulty registering with what happens in the bathroom. Strong smell of urine. Someone vomits. A guy goes to a woman falling over makeup smeared. As she rubs her crotch with one hand, the other as bolsiquea at will. Winks at me. I saw nothing. The voice on the speaker announces that such a short Sheila will take the stage.
are 3:43 am in the morning and I'm drunk at the worst night club in Lima.
For a moment I do not feel how bad it is whiskey. All infected puteril that environment and poverty need magically sprouts sinister joy as the minutes passed the sad bitches try to take whatever. Dance, laugh, grab your balls, ass and give you the most decadent and sublime tasks.
I'm leaning on the bar and Milagros, my companion improvised withdraws to sell your body to realize that I am very dizzy. I see it as if I were a fly, multiplied and litmus. It has the rough knees. Someone yells something from the side referring to me but it the streets. I think you notice something or someone took me up there. Finally, I wish luck and go, but first warn others that I do not take out anything. The types hit the tables. My pockets bag ball made crumpled bills. Ground them so when I get lost in the night. I ask for more whiskey bad and I feel a heeled shoe from above the bar rests on my shoulder. DESCARCARE red nails and a hand lifted my chin. Total eclipse of the heart . I applaud not know why. Again fly vision.
There is a curtain separating the environment of a ladder. I ask the waiter where I lead. private Al Lord, 40 soles per song and she dances on hembrita, ute and asks if he can play pe. I want my private . Saco four balls of paper money and look what my eyes fly me to identify the smoke and poor light as something like a concrete angel. I see a girl with breasts sitting on a greasy red furniture. I take a ticket and I approach my song demanding change that dirty paper rectangle numbered. She gets up reluctantly. It is tiny and petite. Short pulls her blouse covering a particular belly that seems to have stretchmarks. We says in my ear dry. I think Madonna material girl sings. Open the curtain and find myself following her hips on a ladder too steep. Gathering up a row of private . Toilet paper on the floor, laughing, fishy odor.
Sit down, you know it is the duration of the song . Sounds like an old ballad and Steve Perry as she moves on autopilot. your name? wonder. Olenka tells me. Your skin looks yellowish, but retains a certain charm. Maybe not, but I do not care, I have my private. I see. I do not know what to do, so I just contemplate. I look at her breasts as a compelling reason to be there. Nervously wonder if I can play. Slowly tells me please slowly. Wear my hands to those round breasts and pressed. In the dark I hear a sort of regret in his voice and something wet falling on my eyes. Olenka, what happened, what is this? tell missed but without anger.
- Breastmilk - he told me coldly - and your song is over. ..
When I left there was no sun, I was not drunk and had many stories recorded, but I can only share this.
The others are private.
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