Referendum: em quedo o fotu el camp

De moment estic al camp. Objectiu ú; check.

Que diuen els ticatalans.


POSTFI – Potser quan haguis mort encara viuras. Al cap dels que ens queden aquí, respirant, avui, breath in, breath out, stay with your beat, and relax, you are in: welcome.

I’ve raised a race by racial standards reconstructed elsewhere in time and space. I am bigger than the olympics.

Oh, so ofended wankers… not surprised.

You know you know how the europeans really are when shit’s hit the fans. The fans are now everywhere. Everyone’s capital is Barcelona. Only, there, too, time and space get spooked by local streetsters from this latitudes. 9 neighbourhoods of a reconstruted social self reliable selfgenerated future express universally upgraded to fully undergo multiversism contraformulation processs to earn your entrance into the sublime stability of current demential dancing at the happening transformation show… that’s how good the plan is going to deliver, somehow, somewhere, where nine holy new public servants, a true innovation from the escape from the shithole center of what was once the center of this reconverted spirit of the continuosly evolving Barcelona that we adquired thanks to the work from the team lead by en Pasquall Maragall, net de poeta. Aixó és preciós. La historia de la ciutat es pot dibuixar entre Pasqual i Jorge Herralde. Una entessa de l’esquerra que tenim antifranquista, amb els ous d’un i altres per dir, a la seva, prou: aixó aquí no. Fora.

Som com aquests candidats a mosso d’esquadra que han provat porros, farlopins, marihuana estilo mexicano old school olmecan ticatalán style; theme park of great partying posibilities. Barcelona is like capitalist building with multiple options to choose from in the very sense of the local concept of themselves and the world that surrounded them. Yet they had reconfigured public space and turn the debate of the plaça Catalunya those 99 days of 15m creative joy trust to represent the script of a future culture to follow. They won’t quite get it and that will play tricks on their untrained brains to old Monty Python humour. You know… since they turned into brexiters.

One should generalized. Nor poke fun at the old classic nemesis: United Kingdom. The sound of it rings a tone that make some relatives of Franco still feel the inner rush of a saturized sensfulness through and beyond the anus. Uranus.

I’ve got my brit humour, mate. I can foking fool you fools.

I can fucking fool you fools became a sudden hit.

Some shit like that makes you come out and deliver the choices. We need to get ready to perform. As we called to the test of our true time. Banda. Digan: presente.


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