Ka-tet tamalero.
Vol. I: The moislanger
Chapter I: He
Mr. Tamalero fled across CU and the moislanger followed.
CU was the apotheosis of all cities, huge, standing to the sky for what might have been parsecs in all directions (that's the way it looks when you're wet and all you want is a place where to take over) . Green and flooded, without any other feature save for some students and beers that brought sweet dreams, nightmares, death.
The moislinger walked stodily (you know, the way Moi walks!), not hurrying, not loafing. He had progressed through the khef over many years, and had reached the fifth level (o sea, el quinto semestre). At seventh or eighth, he would not have been wet (I suspect he would not have been at CU that night). He was not seventh or eighth, he was fifth. So he was wet. In a vague way, all this pleased him. It was romantic.
Below the jeans were his wet sneakers. Now, they were the no-colour of rain or dust, though once upon a time they had been red and blue. The sneakers themselves made no noise. They had spilled water (haha). There was no need to make noise in the sterility of CU.
The moislinger had followed the tamalero across CU for twenty minutes now and he had no found any tamal, only some roses.
- Perhaps the roses are a message, spelled out letter by letter. Life. Or, Love. Or even maybe, eat at Sangrons. It didn't matter. He had no understadin of ideograms if they were ideograms....
CU was the apotheosis of all cities, huge, standing to the sky for what might have been parsecs in all directions (that's the way it looks when you're wet and all you want is a place where to take over) . Green and flooded, without any other feature save for some students and beers that brought sweet dreams, nightmares, death.
The moislinger walked stodily (you know, the way Moi walks!), not hurrying, not loafing. He had progressed through the khef over many years, and had reached the fifth level (o sea, el quinto semestre). At seventh or eighth, he would not have been wet (I suspect he would not have been at CU that night). He was not seventh or eighth, he was fifth. So he was wet. In a vague way, all this pleased him. It was romantic.
Below the jeans were his wet sneakers. Now, they were the no-colour of rain or dust, though once upon a time they had been red and blue. The sneakers themselves made no noise. They had spilled water (haha). There was no need to make noise in the sterility of CU.
The moislinger had followed the tamalero across CU for twenty minutes now and he had no found any tamal, only some roses.
- Perhaps the roses are a message, spelled out letter by letter. Life. Or, Love. Or even maybe, eat at Sangrons. It didn't matter. He had no understadin of ideograms if they were ideograms....
