All Small And Mighty In He Machine

No. 31 - San Telmo wanted.

my heart I want to get drunk off a mad love
more than love is pain ...

was a stormy night in Buenos Aires, those that cause cold chills, but there is nothing.
He walked with his head down, feeling the heat that kept the overcoat he was wearing, supposedly to avoid getting wet.
A fifty hat, a watch and did not walk needles and freshly shined shoes ruined and pained.
dirty head a night of alcohol, bad company and a tango reminded their troubles.
- What was I thinking? "- He said to himself.
- Who sent me to get into all this mess? -
His face showed anger, pain, sorrow had been saved and many nights of alcohol, bad company and tangos distressing. Step
not slow to blow the water from puddles on the already messy streets of his neighborhood, San Telmo wanted. Carlos Calvo and Peru.
unpainted walls, high wooden gate, narrow. Find the key and try to ambush in the lock was, by now, quite a feat but they eventually succeed.
"First one foot ... then the other ... One below the other, one at a time, so you do not think trying to fall- concentrate. Focus
-view ... Try to walk right ... Even so ...-
denote drunkenness overcoat is removed, the hat in his fifties, leaving the ruined shoes in a corner and heads for the fridge. Opens and remains. Staring into space, thinking in a vacuum, leaning on the door. Your brain without coordinating what is going swimming in whiskey.
- What was I looking for? -
still staring into space, thinking in a vacuum. Until the cold of the refrigerator begins to freeze his shirt wet with rain and chooses to stay away from there. Aimed
with one hand on the wall (does not want to miss), going slowly to his room. A dark, wet, with the room spinning. And a harrowing tango echoing between the walls of his head. Close your eyes
is suffering because the turns between the bed and her wavy hair madness is imminent and inevitable.
That hair ...
That mouth ... That
waist ...
Those eyes, whimsical, mischievous, eager ...
The scare it awakens all at once tightly holding the sheets as if to fall. Cold sweat.
are trying to dry the sweat with his hands and realizes that drops that crossed his face also were tears. Dreaming about the pain of that destructive love, treacherous, poisonous.
Sitting on his bed, clutching his face, covering his eyes, turning hair in despair. He gets up, rests his hand on the wall and walk to the fridge. Minutes later
can see his head on his left arm on the edge of the table, a bottle of whiskey falling on the floor and empty. The beak broken by the shock and painful marks of violence around the room.