is easy to be dying, the protagonist of the story thought he was trying Alex Lamico writing. They say all the manuals you drop you at any site of your choice according to your mood, and waiting there, lying with eyes closed and thinking about nothing. I have tried several times, he continued his interior monologue, but I can only think of anything when I do not think that I have to think about anything. And point two point three of the manual, it is impossible to let it die. Perhaps
spent two hours or five minutes and everything was the same with the sun beating down and the protagonist without getting left to die. People passing around not even noticed his body across the road. Dodged simply putting the five senses do not trip over or bend his ankle in the attempt. Some dog sniffed him strangely, but woke her nose not excessive interest. Letting
was not so easy to die, so in the end the man fell asleep and when he awoke the moon was well run and it felt cold and reluctance before. There was no one around and stayed very still, pretending to be asleep not to realize that nothing yet had happened, that everything was being spent.
Hours passed and morning came and the man kept lying and athletes first jumped on his body just looking at some dismounted cyclists to cross, another dog, the burning sun again and he did not know whether sleeping or dreaming or if he was dead last and thought it got in so deep there was another life that he lived with her cradling him, smiling at , and reading in whispers Murakami's book in a subway car.
himself was heard in the distance recite every single word he had invented for her, saw her face and hugging tri-color look to follow him out the breath, he lived those kisses at the elevator down subway, smell their scent, he drew her nipples in his mind that wet tongue touched on your palate and pressed both hands hard with sex that she had opened for him. Evening came and another night and another day and she was there in his mind, in every crevice, every blade of thought which clung like a caress and not let him let go.
And she, the girl who was selling posters, one day he wrote in his lineup gap: "I love you" and another day erased all their love and cuddling and all its promise and went to read other tales, measure other meters, to dream other dreams where life began again every life, every story, every day, every dream, every word written backwards and the right to that did not mean never the same. And perhaps some night he even fell down his cheek a tear before falling asleep, but in his dream and never show it.
came a time when his body reached such a degree of putrefaction, the protagonist of the story could no longer resist the smell or the gnawing of rats and careful not to wake up, not thinking about anything else that was the thought of her, got up slowly, with the laziness of a lifetime at the expense of that which he did not know if it was her dream to be or she was taking him. Before the rise of his own body was kissed on the mouth with an accurate detail, as if would be theirs forever the imprint of her tongue in her mouth. Just a few feet away people and dogs and the children began to swirl around his body. He felt a little dizzy.
wandered by the river until the time came and went down to the station. Soon she appeared without his dark glasses and his soul. He wore the sadness of the Monday and he wanted to hug her and tell her estate well, but had no life and no words or smiles to be looked after. She could only get her a lot, cover with mist if it was fog, stroking his mind if he was mind. They went together to the subway and she opened the book to page 260 and sat behind her and began to whisper every single word of that book was written only when he recited.
Nothing happened again, but the protagonist thought for a moment feel happy.
