we had just over 20 years. we were drunk as usual, to an intersection we saw a white sheet on a fall sadly flat, lifeless body. we talked briefly and animatedly.
perhaps you do not even remember the anecdote, but the square of the eternal flame of teufelea with its unfortunate relegated to the indifference of passers-by made me re-emerge at that time.
teufelea and its stories. your stories. your themes. a city surrounded by the perpetual night of individualism, its small advantage, inability to communicate, the reports silly and suspicious, the drives aimed at entertaining a lustful ego. lots of pretty girls, often enamored of the colorful characters and experiences that populate it and yet no real function in their lives, always ready to adapt without its own personality. hell haunted by psychotropic substances divorced from any sense of responsibility or community, with respect to the base as the only individual with borderline chaos. a world rich in characters and grotesque caricatures, close relatives of the freaks who populate the films of Jodorowsky that dominate the paradoxical situations of power and its abuse, as Salo and its 120 days. a dream world, in the end not so different from those around us.
ago actually read the book of a friend, you read between the lines that you can not read between the lines of the other books.
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