Is there any sunny street out there?

... Absurd, absurd! Totally. I still remember: 
when I woke up I still remembered a ridiculous nightmare about a "time travel" or something like...

what? Why you stay looking at me?
Is this stupid? Am I derailing? 

I'm digressing.




Well, the point is that this nightmare was rudely interrupted by... by... 
by what?

Ah yes, it was a bulldozer I think, or something like that.
A bulldozer on the street, the noise was infernal and it woke me up suddenly


but as I told you, I still had part of that strange dream fresh in my mind when I woke up.
In fact it was so vivid that made me stay for a while suspended in a sort of stupor, in which I didn't even remember my name or where I was.

It happened to me many times, it's... it's like a short circuit in my brain. Just some seconds

but the vertigo of those seconds is... deep?
It's deep. Deep like a void in which I am one with an indistinct whole, an empty and impersonal universe in which my consciousness is deeply buried and melted.

Melted and impersonal but still willing, how to explain..?
As if the despairing inertia of my mind was... part

part of a huge and hollow thing, a mind captive of something much bigger and general, a mind without awareness of identity.

And believe me, during that short but intense sequence, the mind struggles with anguish to find an axis, to re-process all its contained data in a cognitive way...

haha, nevermind
I jumped from the bed to the bathroom... why do I wash my teeth and urinate at the same time?
No I don't urinate seated, it's all standi...

ok won't digress again, sorry...


I had to go to Oviedo, though I don't like... well, not that I don't like the town, it's just that its ascending and descending streets are weird and uncomfortable, and for some [probably deeply rooted psychological] reason I find it beautiful but cold, and lifeless...

desert.

The office I had to go (Uria street 19... 2nd floor "B") was [unexpectedly and rarely] closed when I arrived, and it  was 9:45 AM...
anyway there was an advice stuck on the door indicating that they would open a bit later due to .........., so I had no choice and had to take a walk.

The morning was considerably windy and my stomach ached, possibly the black coffee I drank in a rush combined with the cold wind operated something common in my stomachal system, which I usually call "winter effect"
killing time and passing by the Cai Oscura, near to Plaza Trascorrales, the colossal Gothic tower of the Cathedral d'Uviéu caught my eye insistently from the distance... I always wanted to visit the catacombs of the Cathedral where several entombed Visigothic Kings lie, but it was always closed.


Distracted in certain anguishing and vague thoughts that crossed through my mind, but never settled as concrete conceptions, I roamed during an indefinite while

those presences in my mind grew stronger every minute, and the more intense they got, the more phantasmal and triste they became.





When I returned to the office it was congested by busy people with papers in their hands
there was a rumorous silence in that workroom when I saw myself standing there in black & white among a sepia and sienna crowd.



Involuntarily and repeatedly my eyes were redirected to the figure of a slightly overweight employee who was seated behind a metallic desk, his fat and rosy hands turned the pages of a humongous ring binder at prodigious velocity, with his stare fixed on an angle of the running pages, which he seemed to read without reading

against my will I started diving harder into that stare, when my nerves perceived an impenetrable lasciviousness, fatally combined with a strange avidity in his protuberant ocular globes, which were subtly covered in a humidness that came from the depths of his swollen lower eyelid, overflowing like an almost imperceptible thin line

every now and then he stopped at certain page brusquely in a little stupor, stamping it twice, or even thrice, as if the ink of the  greasy rubber stamp wasn't enough to leave a clear impression on the paper...
... as the round hand hammered the pages with erotic delight using the rubber tool, he moved his fingers in the same way that a lover moves them in a vagina during a handjob, symptoms which in some treatises on psychoanalysis were related to the transference and the sexual object, perversion that was recurrent in neurotic and schizophrenic patients especially, as it was annotated by the laureate psychiatrist Zadie Smith on his essay "Playing with a nymphomaniac girl: creamy penetrations".
I thought I distinguished, from the distance, his name written on a plastic, rectangular and small button stuck in his sweaty blue shirt:
Hugo Guerrero Marthineitz.





Please excuse me, I don't know why I'm saying all this... well, the point is that when I was done in that office I fortunately felt that my stomach was considerably alleviated... to some extent that predicament came like a blessed cure, and I walked again for a while without a clear destination

the omnipresent tower of the Cathedral appeared once again, whose Gothic edges were outlined against a white-cloudy sky resembling a silvery spacecraft of the NASA ready to be launched: an indecipherable detail in the view made my paces shift in that direction with robotic diligence

as my legs walked, the adjacent lanes of la Catedral d'Uviéu passed under my soles, like para-medieval spectral panels... all of a sudden, in a shake of consternation my brain reminded to have completed that exact trajectory before
unlike my past visits, the doors were open this time, and I knew it beforehand:

I entered the edifice aghast and sad, all those orange lights were turned on inside, like Hells.



Into the crypt of rays, my steps stopped before the sound of their echo on the wet pavement

in machinal movement my stare stayed fixed on the baroque sarcophagus of the king Fruela I "the Cruel", who ordered the construction of the primitive body of the temple circa 760 BC, with 12 altars to the 12 Apostles, and a pyre with fire of gold.

Over its twin sarcophagus, containing the niveous bones of his wife, the queen Moonia de Gascogne, an ogival wooden representation of Azrael carved in intaglio was hanged

and Azrael was the angel that separated the body from the soul after death, according to the Jewish hermeneutics
and his stare showed the soft piety but... yet in the unfathomable bottom of those inert eyes there was something unexplored

impure

impure in humidity, as in a first instance I started perceiving with dolor:

brown tears flowing from the rotogravured eyes of the archangel provoked a violent nausea in my physiognomy, which made me throw a fat jet of vomit on the intagliated celestial image.

Despite my mind was tranced in an acquiescent lethargy and I could barely move my legs, I ran out of that terrible place, puking all over the floor with loud spasms of repugnance: escaping with desperation, I arrived to the minimal angle of a mournful corridor, from which I saw a thin entry of natural light


















the doors still were open, blurry human figures seemed to pass by the street under the rachitic sun of the afternoon.