The Long Island sounds

 
 "A story, two cities."









Mark walks down the November streets with a bottle of liqueur semi-wrapped in a paper bag.
The rain makes the paper get stuck to his hand; the rocambolesque grocerie shop's employee sees him passing by, slowly, behind a pile of cheeses:
the illumination is exactly as you imagine it... do you know this color, pastel?
 


Tuesday. 
 
The yellowal colors of NYC in the cold months are reflected on his encapsulated leather jacket... only a loser, the crap of the society could wear such jeans: the black canvas sneakers get more than humid along the dirty but wet sidewalks that Mark walks every day.
It's a prodigy the fact that Mark obtained the unemployment benefit, but prodigies happen: 

one of the prettiest cities, specially for someone who only can have peace of mind among the chaos, the neurasthenia and the menace, like Mark.

Or me.


Because... the most wonderful things of the city of my past life are its tall buildings, its cellars, its stairs; subterranean galleries and sex shops.
 
Chains, electric blue neons and its twilights: grey that sinks its light into a heavy blackness. The robot heart of the city when it's screaming... without light.
 
And for the unexpected.
 


Sunday. 
 
Do you know what is like to be devoured by the pain slowly?
By this indistinct feeling that your life it's a meaningless, useless... nothing.


"You're an idiot and a loser, if you want to get your share of blood in this jungle of vampires you have to cut your own jugular
so do it, do it now! Now..!"

The TV shows are so depressing... the food is like a raw dough of wheat, water and salt... it's raining and mom sleeps, but not deeply enough to steal her pills.
It's Sunday. 11 pm.


For God knows I'd like to die tonight.


















Friday. 
 
If you weren't born and didn't live all of your life in a big city, you don't know.
You don't know what is like to live in
in.
To fall, falling asleep under those lights that never. End.


Falling asleep with the shining ocean of cars and crowds under the sun all day.
The shining in your retinas, yet. 
Since you're born; yet, yet, always... never


always
never
always.


You had to born there to know. There to know there to know there to know... me.
 


A sunny day: veteran / neurosis of war.
 
The Buenos Aires streets are long, I can't live without my city: she's my chains and my liberty, because her streets never end: you're free only where the streets never end.
That's the only reason why:  the immense city knows her sons, and protects them under her immense wings. 
 
Oh yes, like a huge, perverted and cold heart, she protects them without asking a question.




Back in the day, when my tendons, bones and muscles slid through the lubricated streets of the spider city that was my home, back in the day.





Back in the night, she protected me without caresses
immunized my eyes from the nocternal terror
and lulled my forehead amorously to sleep. Away




but... same as NYC did to Mark, she never immunized me from the absent love

from this invisible knife that lingers on, profound, lacerating.




 




Now, in the still of the night, I have a question for you.