Articles literary and technological.

literary


Woke up suddenly. The head hurted him terrifyingly. As if the heart was no longer in its chest, but in its head. Two hearts. Three hearts. Two small slow and mordant hearts, one to each side of the forehead and one big, more mordant still, in the headpiece. The tomorrow's light had already invaded the space of the bedroom, just as the noises. Below, the automobiles and the car moved out, already for the avenue. The car, quick and noisy, the slow and boring automobiles. A bitter, too bitter flavor, bothered its mouth. The eyes hurted him. Went slowly to the bathroom. First he tried to discharge, without any success, what occupied their stomach that had seemed him urgent. Then it was brushed the teeth with exaggerated slowness and without at least to look at you in the mirror. Unintentionally to look at you again in the mirror, in the damned spotted mirror of sadness and failures. When I look at myself in mirror, it was said, I always look at myself to the eyes and the gives me rage to see to an old one every more deteriorated day. The alive image of the failure. The face of a mediocre man that didn't reach none of the goals that noticed along sixty six endless years of routine. Two divorces, the rejection, almost the hate, of the children. The inability, first to conserve and finally to get an employment. A simple employment that allowed him to deceive at the time and to survive. They were too many the symptoms. A sixty six year-old old man that soon would not have of what to live. Neither why to live. she lit the television. Anything had changed. The same of every day. Of every morning. The same imbecilities of every day. Of every morning.  took two aspirins. It looked for the boxes of cereals that it mixed every morning, the milk , the brillant, and  prepared the same breakfast that took every morning, slowly, in front of the television. In front of the boredom. As every day. There out, the mountain rose far, also, as every morning. Slowly, in complicity with the sun, it began to develop the daily show that made, unsuccessfully, every day, every morning. Every morning the mountain changed forms and of colors while it was allowed to caress for the light of the Sun. The clouds were sometimes added to the game and the show was made even more beautiful. And more useless. Because at that hour nobody saw it. At that hour most of the men supported the slowness of the traffic between curses and insults or they were already in their work places, upset, bitter. Or they slept the pain of not making anything, or of having made something bad during the night or during the dawn. That it was their case.  knew that had made something bad, very bad, but he didn't remember what. The head hurted him too much. It turned off the television to avoid the noise that hit their temples and their soul.  He had just remembered that it was dead.