It’s just 28 minutes of having enter the 23rd of juny. The year: 2919.
A pakistani beer seller on the street celebrated the millenary tradition of Ferran and Avinyo: to be first ones to start the firework delight very early, very early, very early, when ticatalans started up the day. Through the night.
I am a local newbarciner.
Newbarkiner was the way some people decided to call them in what they still called their original language.
English Language Death.
My first book in Ticatalan will be this one and I will sell it myself in the London Bookfair with the best team of editorial advisor society to complete alter the industry of making and publishing books by authors who still think ideas to transform the way we think life could be, in those nice little stories. Fiction. As if fiction had any real solution to the onew who suffered the most. Ain’t it there where we should be watching? Where the fuck did you leave you head?
And your head had gone all over the place. Nuts. With a solo show to take the night. Maybe just reading. Keeping it surreal. As and old Spanish thing. And you digg that one. Just that one little part of the fucking complexity of the dual system of the holiest on this side of the land, as I came to experience, until after too long, I was one of them. But this ain’t my fault. Nor yours. I am sorry if I didn’t intervene. I was working as I scratched the bottom of the rocky spyky motherfucking pit.
Don’t swear, please.
Someone is offended.
It’s a song they now sing in pubs every day at 09:09. AM and PM, that is. You know time. You know drinkers. You know pubs. Not just bars. There you have a faceoff you have never seen.
You are a prisioner of yourself.