I can’t sleep. I’ve been feeling so stupid. stupid stupid. Some time ago I used to spend a long time in front of a fan. I remember I used to speak to it because I love the distorted words that came from it, they were extended versions of themselves, words elongated in a sound. aaaaaa eeeeeee and the fan would keep spinning. The first time I cut my finger was because I put it into the fan, the fan was so fast that it made a huge cut in my hand. I remember there was this one time in which my mom caught me burning the hair in my legs with a lighter, the operation was very simple, I had to go through every one of my follicles burning every hair until I had none or felt bored. The reason was to feel the smell from burned hair. In time, I tried other ways for smelling burned hair like burning a bit while lighting up a cigarette in the kitchen. I really like this one because it always was the perfect normal excuse. Words never come to me properly. Writing in English is another way to hide myself from me. I’ve been in a perpetual cycle of defeat spinning over and over again like a fan with no direction more than to spit some dirty wind out of it. I’ve been so anxious I can’t sleep anymore. Words, words, words, every day I think of the words I never write. What if I keep reading about that theory I read once… I might get something from it. But words never really come and when they do is under this hysterical crisis in which I write or I will throw up in my own bed so I rather write something. Words have become to me the synonym for throwing up. When I was a baby I used to throw up so hard my mom would joke I was the girl from “the exorcist”. It used to be a great joke among my family members. What if I was a rapper? I could be then able to throw up all my thoughts in a song and in a freeway. Ok, that’s I’ll do. I’ll start a career in rap. I’ll do the best I can to stay as honest as possible to the words I need to say. Ok, one, two, no no wait. Why the fuck you are so vain keeps sounding in my head? Ok, once again… one, two, three. no, what am I supposed to talk? fucking migration? wait, let me try again. One, two, last night I dreamt my friend killed someone and I helped to hide the body, my generation above me, I know you still remember me, cigarettes on cigarettes my mama think I stink I got boreholes in my hoodies. FUCK, that’s fucking Kendrick Lamar except for the thing about my friend and me helping to hide a body. Fucking words are fucking me again. Has anybody heard the story of the hole-man? the little empty shadows that feed themselves with all the profane words in this world. Every man has an hole-man in the biggest and yet invisible mount. My hole-man must be so well fed at this time, satisfying itself with all the cursing I do through the day. I say so much shit I can’t even remember anymore. I’m dying of thirst. I’ll open my mouth and give it to the fan so it dries it even more and then I’ll have the biggest desert in my mouth. My lips are camels in the desert. That last line was so fucking corny I would never say anything like that again. I promise to Hephaestus.