Memories or a flash from a passed future

"i. In the beginning Man created God;
and in the image of Man
created he him.

ii. And Man gave unto God a multitude of
names, for example: "Lord of all
the earth", or any other name at the convenience of Man.

iii. And on the seven zillionth
day Man rested his wet loins, and did lean
heavily on his God, and saw that
it was good. 
And saw that himself was God."






























When I was myself a schoolboy a bearded woman told me the little story of the ultimate creation, the story of the last substitution of the man.

The words dripped down by her blue beard, her eyes shining yellow-ish and her thin-red lips under the icy sun of a July morning of suburbia that I don't want to remember.

The white expressiveness of her cheeknoses[sic] gave me a clue: I was listening to an extra-mundane apparition?
Though she was completely municipal.

In the stomachal vertigo of my milc and my kookies a swirl of vomit assaulted my gorge while the sibilant and cutting phrase from her lips sliced the frozen oxygen of the hour:

-"And Man was máquina, and he was not anymore on the World."







The precise sharpness of these words sounded in the space between her face and mine like a mysterious echo come from an engine de invierno

I still didn't use to shave myself back then, I admit it.

Either she used to, though she needed it more than I.







Suddenly she opened her eyes like two boiled eggs, and shaped her mouth, round like a perfect meatball, to pronounce an irrational sentence:

-"Nobody knows when it's going to happen, but for the life of me, it is going to happen, and how, the genesi of spatial monstrosities[sic].
All this, my son, it's in that Apocalypse of a book that once I've read: the Man losing his brains, and being not himself anymore, but still being:
the ultimate abomination."





Her round feet started walking away from me, softer and heavier than the morning of 198...