First scenario.

Open your mouth, scream, as you release your hands, an idea: to swallow the cross, to spit at the passersby. Protest! Why protest? Demands?

No one pays attention, no one sees, yet they scream.

Days later, everything suggests that they stitched up their mouth with a proposal.

Symbolic attitudes emerge, the trap music plays, who was it? What happened?T

They put up a sign, inviting the public to express their grievances.

Peace has come with bribery at a commemorative event.

I breathe! There's nothing interesting around me, as if a black hole had swallowed them all. And the hissing intensifies, the intrigue, the adversity, the inverse, the left and right.

Now categorized by genres, subgenres, colors, behaviors. Nothing fits, but in the end, the winner will be the first to reach their prey and devour it.

I reset, update, yet the landscape remains the same.

Second scenario.

The train doors open, they enter. The first ones cry, they study the cultural clash, the implementation of equity. Time has changed. They cry again, they are certain that in the processes of recent years, they are the victims. The world has abandoned them, leaving them in the hands of obscurantism and ignorance.

They consider evolving with socio-technological methods, modifying behaviors by studying them in detail.

They want to escape the classification that puts them in the same range through scheduled encounters. They warn that they will act on the circumstance with new theories inaccessible to past generations to finally put an end to the phrase circulating in everyone's mouth: the generation of glass.

The second group is immoral because they show instability without remorse, because they will remember, when necessary, that they get high or drunk daily despite being around fifty years old. They don't cry, they attack the police, and most of their friends have died.

They will teach you to spit on the statutes of society and the law, that law dictated by senile, lascivious, and decrepit individuals.

If you don't have the courage, leave it. They won't blame you; they'll reaffirm themselves and celebrate it. The bar is a lecture hall, a platform to inflame you; the thrasher musical school was not created for weak crowds. To hell with it, a toast with the last coins, tomorrow will come.

Fortunately, the train opens its doors, and as the minutes pass, they leave, distance themselves, stop repulsing each other. The city has multiple meeting points to reassign the same ones and separate those who repel each other.

Third scenario.

She thinks, takes her son to paddle tennis. She thinks, goes out for tapas. She thinks, feels desire, gets hot, has sex, finishes, looks for her son, brings him home.

She thinks, cleans the living room, goes to church. She thinks, returns, kills her husband, dismembers him, burns him, piece by piece, and starts flushing him down the toilet again and again, until a phrase from her son leaves her paralyzed.

Mommy, mommy, the hand, the hand is missing.

The relationship between Maria and Jose used to be like this: impulsive, intense, irregular... And yet, they needed each other, not anymore.

Fourth scenario.

To gain credibility, he needs to improve his appearance, stop joking, maintain order and seriousness. In the era of visuals, and where rules matter little, he struggles to learn the lesson, to comply with the guidelines. Despite all the research, he downplays it and plunges into apathy. He mocks the passersby, the audience in the non-existent hall, and walks back to his bench in the square, settles in and continues to smile. He needs to dissociate, to see himself from the perspective of a third person, to describe himself with absolute certainty, but he doesn't calculate the time; it's been six years, and the routine keeps pushing him into his comfort zone.

Suddenly, he breaks, emerges from nowhere, and decides to change the world. To do this, he must (he thinks) make some modifications. These involve confronting the Mars, Koch, Hermès, Al Saud, Ambani, Wertheimer, Johnson, Rothschild, Rockefeller, Morgan, Du Pont families. The Illuminati, Bilderberg, Freemasons, Templar Knights, Skull and Bones, Rosicrucians... to create a civil war in every country, and the most challenging of all, to reformulate the foundations upon which the rules are based. However, he sighs, looks up, and reads a sign: roasted sheep.

Fifth scenario.

"Being II" comes out of nowhere, partially listens, and instead of focusing on the facts, immediately starts correcting him ("okay, I agree, you got that famous author's acceptance for that big interview, crossed the United States from the Atlantic to the Pacific on a Greyhound, met Lawrence Ferlinghetti, co-founder of City Lights bookstore, and punched the Jamaican dealer in Harlem - without being a fighter - but that didn't happen in 2005, it happened in 2006").

From that moment on, he talks about moral superiority: about gastronomy, children, his hatred for Catalan, standing, kneeling, or walking.

"Being I" always found it surprising to see such a variety of forms that questioned everything, even from an initially completely monotonous barren horizon, bodies and voices emerged. From the beginning, he didn't feel close to a region until, over time, it happened with other regions too. After half a century, he realized he had always been in no man's land, but undoubtedly, if he wanted to get up early, he had to go to bed 

early to unintentionally keep going nowhere.

(From the story 'Performance')

Starvation

He wakes up suddenly. He's thought of something. It's a room without a ceiling surrounded by walls. But there was no one there; it was total darkness, it must have been cloudy. He doesn't insist, he covers himself again with the sheet. When he feels the cold night breeze coming in through the window, a deliberation comes to him. "I wish," he thinks again, "I could regain a beautiful dream, float into the air, as if carried by soft feathered wings." Between one thought and another, six minutes have passed.

If only he had a candle or a flashlight. If he reaches out and touches something to feel a presence; but what if it then disappeared? This would frighten him, this would lead him to the utmost horror. He experiences fear.

When will something finally be what it claims to be? The reminiscences mixed with dizziness. No answer. No reaction to materialize a sign.

And he remembered when he used to ask her something, and she would reply, "I don't know. What do I know? I've forgotten," or "I have no idea whatsoever." She had a sharp face—big eyes—like a Siamese cat. It was his last resort to find a concept he never found. That time, he bid farewell to life as a couple and left.

He should get out of bed, but he wonders, "And for what?" He should shower, but he wonders, "And for what?" He should eat, but he wonders, "And for what...?" There were so many things he should do.

How many days had passed?

His body was already burning glucose, breaking down glycogen molecules.

It was a lengthy process, and he wanted to expedite it by going to the kitchen for a knife, but he no longer had the strength.

At times, he disconnected from reality and had serious doubts about his ability to make decisions when he entered a much deeper state of stupor. Hours became crucial. And suddenly, he heard the doorbell and the phone rang.

He wanted to hydrate, wanted to open the door, answer the phone, but they would take him to the hospital to insert an intravenous line or some other invasive life support measure, ruining all the progress toward death. Unexpectedly, he had a flashback and detailed the rabbit he received as a birthday gift (he painted it red to confine it in a cage); a ship; the woman dressed as a bride who appeared at the room's door. And he stopped.

He reasoned coldly and dispassionately. He felt like everything was downhill from there. His body began the phase of internal self-cannibalism. With nothing in his stomach and all the fat burned, the final proteins were running out. Under muscular exhaustion, cells began to break down their own proteins into amino acids, and the brain devoured them. In the final phase, he saw how the circular space closed in, darkening everything around. He saw freedom approaching, as if he had been compressed inside some place and suddenly had violently burst out, but before wandering in the bard's mind, a blow and a voice emerged, preventing him from embarking on the journey. With an unheard-of effort, he managed to lift his head, open his eyes slightly, and see the broken door.

Twenty years later

We have stopped talking. Boredom has set in. Brief appearances only serve as pretense. The passing of the years has brought with it a new reality that begins to manifest itself through physical and mental changes.

For some, it's a period of meditation and regret, while for others, it's a time of arrogance and absolute superficiality. Without words, we avoid crossing paths, there's no time for conversations or reminders. Death begins to take center stage among the closest ones; medical diagnoses are unfavorable, age moderates. Many change their habits and even their customs, feeling closer to other cultures than their own.

I reflect on how many have disappeared without leaving a trace. Submission at a slow pace makes us consider problems and try to penetrate the secret of the invisible. We hide our jolts, our baseness under a cloak of moral responsibility that we will transplant to others through our example. We are serious, with our eras on our backs, observing how spaces change, how the desolation and apathy of age are constructed at an accelerated pace.

New Year's of 2003 (New York)

I meticulously prepared myself to celebrate that special day, surrounded by fireworks, toasts, warm hugs, and sometimes a tear that escaped. Invitations came from all corners, and I experienced immense joy, one I had never felt before, just before leaving that refuge.

On Wards Island, they had implemented new security methods, replacing common guards with members of the "DHS": Department of Homeland Security. They had installed cameras and relocated another large group of violent men to the Atlantic House Men's in Brooklyn. Although everything had calmed down, there was a tense calmness. 2003 was about to end, so we took the train early to be among the crowd that would welcome the new year in Times Square.

The police had created security rings at the entrances due to the terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers, necessitating heightened vigilance. As the hours passed, the group began to disperse. With Said, I entered a bar and waited for the hour to approach while distant music played.

During the countdown, a massive crystal ball descended. Up to a million people gathered, as they do every year, but this time, we experienced it differently: we shouted, hugged strangers, made new friends, and exchanged phone numbers. Where to next? The desire for absinthe was next on our list. We immediately debated on the place and the area. The train stations were open until dawn. We arrived at the William Barnacle Tavern on 80th Street in St. Marks Place, a place specialized in "Old Absinthe": Absinthe, nicknamed "The Green Fairy" because of the herbs it contains, like Artemisia absinthium. When you add cold water and sugar, the drink transforms.

In that small East Village place, they projected a concert on one wall, and the place had a retro vibe. We didn't hold back when it came to drinking; I had money, and that wouldn't be a problem. Slowly but steadily, one drink after another, talking nonstop. Like everyone else, we had that optimism, saying that 2004 would be different. We were rebuilding an illusion. Said wanted to banish that feeling of dying alone, but he believed in resurrection.

The more you think about death, the more addicted you become to life, to the need for love, to contemplation.

From the bar, we went to his brother's place. Actually, it was his brother's girlfriend's place, who had recently been released from prison. The apartment was located on 34th Street and had wonderful views. The girl's first words upon seeing us were about the sculptural art of Koons, a kind of sex with or between dolls and everyday objects. Said's topics were related to the CIA and conspiracy theories. His brother let us freely choose the liquors from the bar in the living room. We ate, drank, and emotionally said our goodbyes before stepping out onto the street.

Once outside, Said asked me for money to buy drugs. I gave it to him but chose to leave the place where I was supposed to wait for him. His last expression was as vacant as it was mad. I didn't want to see him again in that state I had seen so many times before: babbling, saliva dripping from his mouth. I knew he would insist on the same thing for another dose soon.

Despite everything, morning came, and I stayed on my feet. I went to Spanish Harlem and entered a small Puerto Rican restaurant. Through the window, I saw döner kebab stands, travel agencies, ice cream shops, and a sex shop while I ate. Later, I checked into a hotel and, in a burst of nostalgia, called my parents.

I slept long and deeply. When I woke up, it was already night. I showered, got dressed, and went out onto the street. The first thing I did was buy a beer and drink it in one gulp. I carefully examined the skyscrapers. I love walking in Manhattan so much; I've never tired of it. I wasn't sure where to go. It was eleven at night, and at that hour, a dipsomaniac was born within me; the melancholic savagery of an eternal stroll; the extension of a dream that is only possible in that vastness.

I remembered that urban sunset that aligns perfectly on the horizon from 14th to 57th Streets, offset by 29 degrees from the city's east-west axis. I gradually grew tired, walked and walked until I reached the Brooklyn Bridge: the monumentality of joy. From that bridge, I remembered my influences, the legendary love to keep going, despite any conflicts. I knew that evasion was the basis of strength. I also remembered that with the writer Milton Ordóñez, I went to a cinema on 24th Street every Monday, where they screened independent films.

We would arrive in the morning and, if we wanted, stay until late at night watching movies one after another. I remember there was a lot of fog, and the movies were Iranian, Peruvian, Indian, French, Italian, and Russian, with a constant dose of Japanese horror. We would leave with tired eyes, and outside, a friend of Milton's, who later became a great poet, would wait for us on a bicycle and accompany us for a while.

I enter a Starbucks and order a two-dollar coffee. I sit down and observe a white man in a trench coat. He turns around and talks to the wall. Once again, I drift aimlessly and understand the true purpose of poetry: to suspend oneself everywhere. It was the conjunction of feelings, races, and structures. Only the most daring had made it there because people all over the world, with or without money, had said, "Let's leave everything behind and go to New York." And I had met many of those brave souls.

Of the twelve hundred dollars I had, I now had seven hundred left. What to do? So many options among so many schizophrenics. Many told me that the panic caused by the collapse of the Twin Towers had contributed to the development of chronic diseases in the population, such as asthma, heart attacks, claustrophobia, depression, and anxiety attacks. The New Yorker was no longer the same as before, although that disorder had also made them stronger. Many wore camouflage clothing and were ready to defend their country from any external enemy.

Many experienced the collapse of the Twin Towers within a religious framework of an apocalyptic nature, as "judgment day" or "the end of the world." It was all nightmares, agitation, an alert of excessive suspicions. Although everything seemed to return to normal, reminders of the catastrophe continued to haunt many city dwellers.

Once again, I took the train and found myself back in the East Village. I was trembling, and my mouth was dry. Immediately, I saw a bar and entered: Death & Company. I don't know what was in the drink I had, I just remember it had a delicious taste. I walked out... "It was all about going in and out of bars, the subway, filthy hotels, and disgusting shelters." It was all about thinking, being insane in memory, insane in projecting a future for which nothing was done. Believing that I was hurrying to avoid being caught by winter, but it always caught up with me.

I thought about looking for a prostitute and paying her, but I had never paid for sex before, and I wouldn't do it now. I went to Greenwich Village, strolled quietly away from the skyscrapers. I bought a bottle of vodka and got lost in the narrow streets of the West Village, with its brownstone houses, numerous coffee shops, zigzag-shaped fire escapes, and store windows. I was surprised by an old market/prison converted into a bookstore. Exhausted, I ended up in Washington Square, where locals, tourists, and students mingled in a bustling crowd.

Text from the book "Ward's Island: 

The Dark Side of New York" (excerpt).

Jump together

Inna brought with her an otherworldly understanding that had nothing in common with earthly minds. When he relieved himself he emerged from the grim cliffs, from the spaces that separate the nebulae from the line of the abyss. His somber face was beautiful and full of wisdom, and his brilliant, intense eyes of rare pigmentation were extremely penetrating. Loving and serene; She seemed ready to propose something. While I thought I loved her, looking at her, touching her, smelling her. He uttered phrases of love and implored him for proof of perpetuity.

When Inna got up, she went to the closet and stretched out some ropes in silence to surprise me, and she got to work; He took the end and made two curves forming a kind of "S." Leaving a long, firm line, he then took the top end and put it under everything, so that the S rested on top of a firm line, and turned it seven times. While setting up the stage he looked up and looked me in the eyes. He asked me that after so much we calm the grudges. On the balcony, above the variety of roses that surrounded us, we agreed in our preference for the painter's dream, highlighting the beautiful landscape of multiple mountains and pine trees. Inna grew emotional while holding the two ropes to the balcony railing.

She had something in her head that was spinning, it was an act and for such an act she didn't want to be alone. It wasn't long before he succumbed to his curiosity, opened the box and thus released all his (until then unknown) desires. He thus considered that it was the correct moment to hang himself. Although I had doubts at first, I rationalized my response and accepted. The fact that I agreed proved what I imagined and I burst out with joy. He assumed that it would be the best for both of them, plus the house, he said, was beautiful for a hanging knot conclusion. Getting closer we put our head in and rolled it around until it tightened a little. The air blew and the curtain slid periodically against each other.

—Thank you, Inna! —I told him, waiting to comply with the order. We would make ourselves visible to passersby. But the consternation that everyone would expect on our faces would not exist.

The love we had felt since our first meeting would withstand all that mechanical asphyxiation. Inna was always convinced of the absolute insignificance of our environments. Every night I wondered what the feeling of falling would be like, from so high, and with the awareness of being vulnerable. She had unknown ways of being, different creations capable of pointing out the sinisterness that embodies supernatural horror and pulverizing it. Inna was engrossed as he described his wonder. She evoked it, she wanted me to perceive it just as she did, she invited me to close my eyes and she held my hands, idealizing it.

The tree of happiness

Tall, curved, extremely leafy and green, with large and symmetrical crowns, shaped like umbrellas, the more he looked at them the more he wanted to do it.

Before closing the window he saw the clock: a quarter past ten in the morning. He thinks about his destiny and imagines himself intubated, pale, surrounded by nurses. A woman reassures him: it is not serious. At first, excitement prevents you from experiencing optimism. He prefers to get up, remembering what Inna taught him. He went to the closet, took out some ropes and stretched them in silence, and got to work: he took the end and made two curves forming a kind of "S." Leaving a long, firm line, he then took the top end and put it under everything, so that the S rested on top of a firm line, and turned it seven times. If it worked with Inna, it would work with him too. The same exercise, the same result, perfect, it was done.

With the rope in his hand he marched to the forest and confronted the aromas of the fauna; sage, santónica, chamomile border, piperella, lavender or St. John's wort, he saw a wild boar and a fox, he jumped over a stream to contemplate from above the dome and bell of the cathedral standing out between the houses.

It was afternoon (it was autumn and there were a lot of reddish leaves), he looked up to see two birds passing by that were going towards the west, he smiled and began to study each tree; the height and strength of its branches, the location that distanced them from roads or inhabited places, "and being so close this time" he fell in love with one. Inna had preferred the city, at the last moment he preferred the countryside. He tied the rope to the tree after climbing up, inserted his head and pulled the knot a little tight, the force would be exerted by the traction of his own weight as he remained suspended. In first or third person the varieties were conditioned by the situation of the knot. He doubted that perhaps a tie or shirt sleeve would have affected the appearance of the furrow, but it was too late, everything was a variety, he could also have used a beam, window, fence as support, but he chose the branch of a tree.

Inna developed a cyanotic or pale appearance, which ended up turning blue. To imitate it he would need the side corresponding to the knot to be less compressed, so that, even if the jugular veins were blocked, the vertebrae could remain patent. To join Inna and fulfill his promise, he stood on tiptoe and jumped.

© All rights reserved Juan Carlos Vásquez