Milagros Stories

En aquel pueblecillo, vivio Santiago Asuncion, a quien por reducir su nombre le llamaban "San chon" se comentaba entre las damas del pueblo que era el mejor amante con un miembro enorme. Un dia, los hombres celosos se lo cortan y el pobre muchacho muere desangrado. El miembro es rescatado por una mujer y enterrado en lo alto de un cerrito, ahi, entre todas las mujeres hacen una capilla...Se empieza a correr el rumor que San Chon concedia milagros, y el pueblo se llena de peregrinos. Ahi llega Teodoro quien se dedica a cumplir las mandas mas dificiles que no pueden hacer los feligreces. Teodoro es capaz , por dinero, de cumplir cualquier manda.

The Idiot leans from the margin of this page, his shadow cast onto your mind. Before you begin, forget what you know. Time is not a straight line, but an embrace between echo and silence. Have you ever felt that a memory is not your own? That the beat of your heart echoes in another galaxy? Only questions exist, multiplying like fleeing universes. The first clock was a wound. Someone, in some ancient desert, counted the drops of blood falling from their side and said: -*This is an hour.* Then we invented calendars to domesticate death. But time, like a wounded animal, never obeyed. Now you stare at your phone and think you see truth. The Idiot laughs. He knows every number is a hieroglyph scribbled by a madman. -*Why should I believe in this book?* -*You ask as if truth were something that exists outside of you.* -*What if it's all a lie?* -*Lies are the atoms of gods.* -*What will you gain from this?* -*Nothing.* -*Then why write it?* -*For the same reason a river flows: because the abyss beckons.* -*Are you God?* -*I am the Idiot. Worse: I am the echo of a question you never asked.* -*How will this story end?* -*With a period that will turn into a comma, and a comma that will sprout like a big bang.* Now breathe.