Simón Barreales
He was nervous and sweaty, with a lost stare and rapid breathing, rather odd and, to be fair, ironically paused, as if it gave his regret away, but he knew well there was no way back. Once again. he took to the “Moscos”[1] bottle, only this time his throat did not resent the ethylic burn; and his look became the stare of a mad man, all of a sudden deranged to see all that money in his hands, he was fond of the smell of filthy paper; he would smile, at times with fear, at time
My demons
Actually, I was trying to dream that it was just a dream; it is the only way to endure it, to bear it and to be aware of the darkness we absorb by the mere fact of being who we are. Atypically, I come round quite early in the morning; sky looks forlorn and the wind blows rather cold; with an effort I open my eyes and they release a river of night tears; I put on my spectacles, look downwards and realize that my room is plagued with carnivorous toads. They are grotesque, their
