World-Wolf - (ENGLISH)

Chapter 20

Boys, the depression was killing me. I checked on the Swear-Bible if the flights for Russovskia came down of prices. But they didn't. Me and HIV transmitter have this relationship: repulsion at pure state. I mean, both of us have each other on his balls. And I'm fine with that. Who does want that a doctor tells you "You've HIV virus." God's sake, I could die at once.

Wandering I saw this diagnostic centre and I got scared as hell. I'm really hypochondriac. I started thinking that I had cancer and that the doctor had given me only two days left. Boys, I run away and hid in a boulevard. I was breathless. Then, I laid the head against a filthy wall and I cried. I punched twice the wall and what a pain. Don't punch the wall. Never. I'm saying it only for your knuckles' wellbeing.

When one cries, he's digesting life, I think. Our unconscious or subconscious or whatever is it (I'm sure that there is something) rebels against the shitty, one-way life and cries. It is it that cries, not yourself. I cried with the real Me back then, though. I didn't allow to the unconscious to cry. I'm annoyed about the idea that something, which I can't control, is living inside me. Who the hell is it? Damn it, it has room and board and it should control my tears as well? No, this is unconstitutional. I'm still talking about the unconscious. I didn't mention it to remind you, just for me.

Memory is a gigolo. It's ready to sell itself to the best buyer. I have never had the intention to insert the word "whore" instead of "gigolo". First because everyone uses it and second because men are lower than women. I'm not a phony. I have to say the truth.  We, boys, are in the tribal era.

Anyway, I took some minutes to calm myself down and after I figured out that it was the boulevard which I had seen those filthy three having sex. That scene is still torturing my mind.

I'm wondering why couldn't those three do their businesses and have sex, say, in a damn hotel room? Grandma was right when she used to say "People don't have respect." The death penalty didn't prevent the asshole making murders; instead it encouraged them.

Einstein, black hole, wormhole and... mind. It also called life explanation. Although wormhole and black hole mean the same thing.

I was telling that people use the solipsism art. Once Ms. Jones, who taught a year of philosophy at school, said that big word. It was the only concept our classroom learned from her, besides complementary and supplementary angles of her body. I think even a gay would have drooled to watch Ms. Jones. Marilyn Monroe was her lookalike and not the contrary. Yet, Ms. Jones had the hair of red orgasm colour, designed lips and all perfect.

Anyway, the Solipsism is when a person thinks only about his business and refuses every kind of advice. Term in brief: a hell of narcissist. People know well the meaning of solipsism. If you ask them and they do a dumbfounded expression, take some snow, ball it up and threw it straight on their face, perhaps yelling PHONY.

I was telling you about the boulevard which I had seen the filthy guys. This time I didn't hear pleasure screams, but pain. I was hearing the thud of a bat against someone's bones. I dried my tears with the hoodie and I did again James Bond stealthy gain.

Boys, a gang of four boys were beating up a black guy. I have to admit that I didn't know what to do. Then the Swear-Bible started vibrating and I went on YouTube and searched for police sirens. It looked like a naive thing to do, but I did it, anyway. You could not believe, but the gang run away. Not towards me, for God's sake.

"Shit, man. Thanks for that," the black boy said. He split a clot on the ground which sent me up seven litres of vomit. At the end, he stood up. He was a little bit bumpy, but he could still walk.

"Were they fixing your organs?" I asked and I gestured to the Fugitives Gone. The bumpy boy covered one ear. The police sirens on YouTube were still on.