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Around Curl Girl, Interrupted

Checking out the bodies in the streets, shopping for herself in the mirror, the human perplexity and irony to seek perfection imprecise. The obscene can be a dead body in his lewd impunity.

Miras the newspaper and you turn the pages one by one and you stop by chance in an ad that seems directed at you. Read it quietly, half absently thinking about thousands of things to do in the day. However, the news stops you, propelling you to look in the yellow pages one direction. Suddenly you find yourself immersed in a strange route that leads you to a place.

feel a shiver as if the roads will take you alone. Touch the door but no one leaves. Only the caretaker, to which questions about it, she replied that the police already taken the body. Suddenly records that has the keys, and before you finish talking supplies 50 soles. Not to mention I opened the door and enter . You take a few pictures and you look out the window, which you can see a small phosphorescent pharmacy on duty. You look up and recognize a book The Songs of Maldoror, guess strangely missing the last page and coffee is machado page twenty before opening. Breathe the perfume and notes a couple of books with notes, pen bitten with a photograph and immediately view your index finger that has a slight bulge. You repair a sheet placed on the printer and you're going to take, when the police arrive and asks you to retire. I wonder who it was and they say he had no face.

glimpse Lowering your image in the windows and you can blur some factions between the curvatures of the windows. Others almost equidistant splits your profile is spread over three transparent walls. Look at your old watch and notes that do not work. You keep walking and you reach the corner you find a short branch, however you know that means further. Look at your hands and watch a ring green stone, rip the night feeling on your skin. And hurry up the path to your home. You take a taxi and book you're taken back to the police. Read a banner along the route bodies mass curves space-time . Before entering you see that it is 6 pm, enter your apartment and notes that coffee has spilled over the book you have been reading the night before. You lift it clean and looking desperate last page. Looking the picture on your raincoat, collate your face in the mirror and before you could turn a hissing sound of a discharge.

(I dedicate this text fondly Yurena Guillen, a great writer and friend)