This is the brown brain of José Marrone

... And that happened because José Marrone lived in that communal house in Marseille, which was all painted in brown, interior and exterior 

brown, like the Indian Summer in the cold summer prairies of Tierra del Fuego, brown.
Brown, like my tears when I miss everyday.


... And that happened because the brown-ish sameness inundated the whole zone, because all the houses were exactly the same house, and José Marrone lived alone in one of them, like a bachelorette from Paraguay.

As I didn't tell you on the page Nº 19, Marrone traveled daily in a brown bus toward the office where he worked (which consisted of 4 brown walls with a brown desk, an old-brown computer and a brown chair).

Later, at 5 PM, when the labor of the day ended, the brown sidewalks received him with open arms, and José Marrone walked at the light of the afternoon toward the bus stop... and back home again, you wonder?

Back home again the same brown routine of brown walls
always surrounded by things of suntanned color, Marrone, and why?
Brown the glazed tiles of the bathroom
brown the kitchen... ceiling and floor?
Well... brown

and his bed?

Obviously

the fridge? Dark golden

and the wardrobe?

Yes, brown.

Same as the plants of the brown balcony, the brown curtains, or even the brown onion soup that Marrone served on his brown and profound plate.

The coffee brand he used to buy was quite bad, this is why his coffee was brown, same as the brown cup, and the small spoon of brown copper that he used to stir the brown sugar

his shoes, or each of his seven brown suits (one different for every brown day of the week), also were chromatically suitable with his brown socks, and his brown underwear (boxers, Calvin Klein).

Notwithstanding, not everything was brown in the life of José Marrone:
the milk was white
the detergent was green
the butter was yellow
the tomatoes were red
the sky was... blue?

The people were color flesh

the condoms were grey

his eyes were violet

the screen of his computer was silver.


I told you on the page Nº 12 that every Thursday, religiously, José Marrone visited this prostitute girl, Joanna.
Joanna Manuela Serrat.

They fucked with condom, gris and textured

she accepted skin on skin in the anus only, but it was a bit painful, so she often refused

she was extremely clitorian, her clit was decidedly brown

the days José Marrone didn't see Joanna Manuela
his un-Joanned Manueled days
he saturated his cock with fingering abuse in front of images of lingerie

brown lace
or blue
hot blue, azul-celeste.

Don't ask me why or how, and don't even try to know the becauses, but the day 8 of May of 2005 José Marrone started seeing most everything brown, not only the things that were actually dark gold or nougat, but every thing.


The whole life acquired a raw sienna, dare one say mocha tincture in his retinae

-these things happen-

more or less luminous tones of sepia, caramel and taupe inundated it all for José Marrone, as the surreal possessed him in the galloping dementia that made idoneous nest in his brain: the brown brain of José Marrone:


the milk was hazel
the detergent was habanito
the butter was chestnut
the tomatoes were marron glacé
the sky was... chocolate?

the people were auburn

the condoms were fuscous

his eyes were bronzed

the screen of his computer was wild beige.




Impossible! How it was possible! And so suddenly!

Desesperado José Marrone ran to the fruit shop, and bought 1 kilo of red apples

red, furious red, obscenely red, red like the blasphemy
enormous, juicy and round red apples, round like the orgasm of a machine

with ocular exorbitism José Marrone saw the exuberant red manzanas gently packaged by the vendor girl
Marrone stayed stupefied looking at the brown apples in the brown paper bag
dumbfounded Marrone fixed his stare on the boobs of the vendor girl, as juicy or more than the fruit

aroused and perplexed at the same time (these things happen), Marrone deviated his eyes toward the fruit once again

how! Brown apples, how!

Breathless Marrone paid the fruit with a brown bill of 2 euro and ran with the brown apples to his prosti-lover, Joanna Manuela Serrat, through streets color khaki, insanely illuminated by an athletic daylight:

"A fucking, I need a good and wild fucking 
with condom
no, without condom
it will cure me... yes, sex cures everything... I'm not mad, I'm not mad..!"

His crazed race through the overcrowded streets of the centre of Marseille in a Saturday afternoon, plus his denaturalized vociferations, started attracting the attention of the people 

"... To marry me... I'll ask her to marry me. Yes! Tomorrow morning! At the church! 
Ah! Ah!
A bride all in brown! Ah hah! Tomorrow morning! Ha ha ha..! Ah! Ah!"

As the tone of his shouts augmented same as the speed of his legs running through the streets, some people started running behind him, with the imitative instinct of the man-monkey and his alarmed confusion, which mixes the curiosity and the morbosity.

When José Marrone was at few few few metres from the brothel where Joanna worked, he realized that 200 or 300 people were running behind him without a reason, simply gathered by the thrill of the desperation and the nerves

like a saltimbanque or a maddened nain de cirque, Marrone reached the door of the bordello, rang the bell, and when the door was opened, he jumped inside with a bizarre pirouette.
The door of the house of prostitution got automatically closed behind his back, and the crowd stayed shouting and murmuring there shocked and puzzled, like baboons behind the bars of their cage.

Once into the whorehouse, slightly more relaxed, José Marrone walked through a brown corridor, and knocked at the door of Joanna Manuela Serrat.

She received him in a hot brown thong of lace, with stockings color biscuit, and brassiere color bistre, that enhanced the balloons in a nicely spherical shape. Her nails were painted in pale oxblood, and her lips, in sinful cinnamon.

Through the brown window pane of the room the daylight seemed to be spotted on Joanna Manuela Serrat, who looked like a superstar came from a wet and fabulous dream... she took her thong off, lifting her buttocks sensually like a porn version of Marlene Dietrich, and got laid on the silky bed sheets color almond, opening her tanned legs in extremis, like lethal scissors of flesh, as the anxious clitoris appeared in front of the José Marrone's eyes

it was like a small worm of honey, pure wet gold, hypnotic, unreal, irresistibly lickable

a thick and dense moan of delight surged from the throat of Joanna Manuela when Marrone slid his brown tongue on her clit for the first time, that day, like a wave of pleasure that made her tawny skin palpitate, from the pelvis and the buttocks to the cups of her breasts, passing like ecstatic electricity through her abdomen, and getting unchained in her spine

her brown areolas received an increasing shade that the erect nipples projected, as they grew taller and harder, like two sticks of flesh about to explode, when the brown lips of Marrone started sucking with plenitude the anal ring as he fingered the clit at the same time

the sphincter of her donut of flesh got a bit dilated
it was like a shiny annulus color terracotta that tasted like a rare combination of poop and perfume, which mixed created a new odour, a very unique, delicate and tenuous fragrance that made the brown cock of José Marrone get a solid erection

and the hospitable vagina received the animal penetration, deeper and harder than ever.

Because in that afternoon of mirage, the anus wanted, the mouth wanted, the tits wanted, the whole body of Joanna Manuela Serrat wanted... to be a big vagina in its entirety, to be fucked in an integral, brown and vicious completeness

on the other hand of the pleasure
on the rhytmical and automatic selfishness of the exercise, same as a lonely rider in Alejandro Korn, the brown brain of José Marrone knew he was into a dream of no return when his eyes saw the brown sun of Marseille setting its rays on the breasts of Joanna
like an enigmatic and uninvited lover for unexpected threesome.































Be welcome, this is the brown brain of José Marrone
maybe a mirror of illusion, like the happiness
like your days and mine.




... And as a brand new day unveils the dark-blonde curtain of the dormancy...