My thing

When I’m drunk I always re-read our conversation, it's like my thing. It makes me remember that time when I was on mdma, walking around in Berlin and it suddenly started to rain and for a second I laughed at it, as I felt like you were with me.

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the night

I believe this is the night that you meet someone and finally, I will just be a sweet memory. I feel it in my gut; and if it’s not tonight, it will be the next night or the following one.

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Paris smells like you.

I sometimes wish it didn’t though. Like,

Sometimes would be easier if I just hadn’t met you, easier like, “Paris smells like pee”.

But I met you, and you smell like hopes and dreams and everything Disney has ever shown to me. And so does Paris.

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Yesterday Sebas left. Every time it hurts a little bit less, the farewells I mean. Not because I’m suddenly made of stone, on the contrary, every time I become more permeable to love -To receive, without questioning-
But it always happens to me, that before wishing a friend to have a good trip, I remember like a flash that sometimes between pitches harasses me.
I call it the Backpack Sequence:

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For the Youth at the Army

I wish that you’ll never get to be a hero of war
I hope that you learn to play the ukelele and that you suddenly feel like doing handicraft.
I hope that your most dangerous weapon be a plastic spoon or a French fried.
I hope that the only thing that you’ll ever get drowned is the F8 at a battleship.

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Today I bought an umbrella for the first time since I broke the one that I had when I was six, which was red with animals drawn on it.
I had hooked it up on a light pole while pretending to be Mary Poppins. Mom got angry and I never had one again. Until now.

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Dear Pancha:

Most people I once spoke with for more than fifteen minutes know how much I liked you. You were my pride, my Third World Rolls Royce, (in a third world where the grass smells like rain and the air sounds like spring). You were my first — functional —bikecycle because before Pancha there were two Rositas and one Mario but none of them generated in me the interest needed in order to learn how to pedal.

You were The one.

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The Theory of the Fuckable

We are what we project. There’s nothing sexier than a person who knows that is beautiful.


And I do want to talk about one particular –meter, the one that I’ve just decided to name


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I wanted to be that mischievous laugh printed on your face, the sort of smile that lasts from the time you stop watching your cell phone screen until you reach the street corner.
I wanted to be the first pinch of the digestive cigarette and the Chinese market that you had around your house, the one that always saved you from starving because it closed at half past eleven at night.

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Not for anything I always preferred to disappear than to be forgotten. Being the one who left was never as tragic as being the one that never came.

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Letter to a Friend

No wait, let’s say it again:

Letter to my friend.

Nono, let’s be more realistic:

Letter to my best friend.

No, no April, don’t. Let’s be honest with ourselves.

Letter to my EX best friend.

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