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Insights into the beyond abstractio :::::: ::::::

I concentrate, and I extend my hands around my knees, exploring the Lotus position of yore, without hurting my joints, I go a little further, so that my aura cosmic satellite, Frequency Modulation, I think it can transmit say

Hello, I know you're busy, first, thinking about the reason for the existence of this dimension, I know, I'd be in shock after the disappointment, "Oh, Carax, there was life after death." But hey, you're there.

opposite of what you expected, I am not who you owe one of your many books stolen, I'm not a fan, nor do I want an autograph. Okay, I know that everyone loves you, you gave distinguished awards, the most widely read and value you as one of the best writers of our time, but the truth? I do not like, sorry, Bolaño, I'd like to like you, first, because it would be a nice way to return the favor to a friend, "I loved it! Very good Thanks to lend it "and second, because we agree much political tendencies, but no, I like your style, let alone make me your stories, but two or three stories, others seemed so little for your place" Phone Calls ".

We'll split sentence of Jack. We will do an autopsy on your genius and my bad taste, or my sincere way of feeling things. Following the words of my professor in college, we will ask how well Bolaño is Bolaño, and why he likes what he likes, and has written and posted, that is, elaborate a little, very brief, theoretical framework to understand you a little.

Bolaño
admired Cervantes, Melville, Stendhal, Joyce, Kafka, and guess, to Borges, all echoes on the keyboard, there was light. Of course, those who like Borges, I come to admire so much as to seek shelter in his style in words with meanings fed up with stories and characters recreated but have almost the same speech as the author. Also, those who worship Borges hardly have the sensitivity and stylistic expertise to enjoy Gabo and company, that is to highlight, Bolaño little interested in Gabriel García Márquez and MVLL. Tomas

convoluted definitions, some authors who impressed naming only, illustrations of the experience your circle of youth, poets Poser and there, a book, obviously, without discarding the friction of free sex to catch the reader. Am I right? Will I follow? How would one of your characters. It was logical, I love the porn genre as much as the police, your novel should have these details unnecessary close contacts to get me away, as would anyone with a small dose of testosterone, I was bored and let him aside, Does the big news was how out of chastity the conceited García Madero?, of course not, but the way you narrate your style very common and more descriptive, missed the memorable scene, all to describe your experience unchanged.

supposed then, that when you read your works you will find more, much more than you. Free your partners, your literary and Trotskyists, your Mexican and English writers, friends, frequent and widespread in other books. I always stumble with your custom pleased to mention, without my asking, what authors have read and admire, always one of your characters will mention Rimbaud, Lihnn, and Nicanor Parra, that's plausible, but scatter in almost a full page one by one the authors I read García Madero in those years, separated by commas miserable barely managed to rest the view was truly unbearable. Your oral exaggerated made me wonder if the critics did not read well your book "Savage Detectives" before refrendarte praise.

Finally, by some strange coincidence, right, while going over some pages of your "Calling" fell into my hands one of the most sublime books I've read, Gabo, of course, "Strange Pilgrims" (who did not I have read, what is expected to lower the net!). It is extraordinary, are stories polished, with the perfect balance of characters and absurd lost, love in every one of them, descriptions and environments, Gabo know much more than that, impossible not to love what he writes.

appreciate not all the same, I've read in a physical book and a battered Gabo in txt format that enabled me to my reader of texts, but still flies and quality of media releases, the words have come and see what I can only marvel at Gabo and disappoint your style.

Maybe a friendship like yours I would have fed a lot left, practice, worship, writer, poet, daring. But I met you but through your text, and well, I told you, I do not like. Thanks for listening, because so far no answer. Since we're here, Can you pass the word to Poe? You translate, yes. What do you not know English?

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feel the violence of my bed, I fell on it, while an invisible program in music player and poignant suicide. In the white ceiling imagine the scene of Poe, notes progress in their torture, united, threatening down on my skin, like the pendulum sharp it will cut my stomach. Suddenly, can not move further, a memory stops night time. Conclusion

last night: No one else has managed to move me so much of pure contemplation of his lips

Prayer

beat the fear and take the whole glass of beer, I filled the throat of its bitter taste. The night is inconsequential events, where the sentence was to celebrate a famous murderer. Ofcourse, what they talked about the importance of escaping that fact. It was the great monologue of success, not sure if it was the smoke coming from your mouth without intent to mine, or your emotion that left me speechless. You're focused and you can throw your beliefs on the table, fascinate me. How I long to be like you, blind both to shine. I speak of my dreams but me ashamed, and you, as I guess, I demand that these are the highest possible. As Asks difficult, you do not care how, just look at the target, impossible or not arrive. You

full energy, I see your skin, piercing eyes, your hair still wet and subject; neat. I knew you wanted to hypnotize, that night I was your prey and did not affect me, or actually do, so I went safe with not under the tongue.

The place becomes vacant, the owner closes the door, and the TV I see that my team is winning, the night was perfect again. Upon leaving, deduced all odds, and war was again myself.

always thought you ready, I was sure I would attend any call, I could have you whenever I wanted, headache, tired or refreshed, like you would come, but my limited by your heart to kill my desire. I am not content with having just your body, I want your soul and your feelings. The inability of your love stop and taste of your detachment soured me a lifetime. Why not call and did not accept more than simple conversations.

The park recovered, the couples sitting on the grass, and lighted trail will not inhibited, there was your skin touching my waist, asking me to drink more beer out there. I stopped walking and I looked like Last time I told you that we will never see again. No more resist the kiss came through my survival instinct, the prayer that had a lot of truth, repeating this prayer while you talk on the table saw.

When I write at night walking back and kisses, the intensity of your mouth and your embrace was not enough to convince me. I refused heroically, after the feeling that always kept me connected to you. I close this Sunday in every word and gesture yours. Perhaps you, the savior of souls, you will understand what I want, maybe I got it and I now have to understand who does did and that is your answer, give me the same thing. If you are not them, "then who?

Today, Easter Sunday, I still hear your songs, which share with the entire city. I only review the prayer Tuesday A kiss from you shall be healed ...