I find John in one of those dirty and narrow streets that I come across from my childhood and, after recommending to convert voice Infinite Jest, Foster Wallace, it asks me to look at nails. Palm extend rather than replicate the finger and tells me that this is how women do or at least flirty women, leaving the air a sneaking suspicion on my manhood, I do not know if social or chromosome, but at this time , on an empty stomach, my hands just seek those white breasts that are pronounced in steel mesh and with tremulous fragility and an apple virgin wedding. I can imagine in the snow, a young woman riding rhythmically towards me, but on the street (the anonymous dead come walking from my childhood) are big women with plastic bags, brutalized by time, like those gray children who lose grace and candor in the shadow of the hospices. Men do not deserve a better fate than they have, but no God would allow women to lose their beauty, twenty years, it was ephemeral, not just a matter of aesthetic canon, or of poetic justice, but because under his eyes the world would be hell sweet, only one of the reasons why he deserves to live in a wild kingdom of heaven, with all of us wandering the streets (the sad streets of our childhood) and his tender bush lips.
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