The writer sat by chance in front of me in math class.The professor was speaking and the soft footsteps of the writer does not bother one bit.The writer was known for his steps cotton candy.I touched his shoulder to say hello but the writer did not turn his head.The teacher was explaining something of the angles and the writer took a notebook. I was surprised by the writer in a class of numbers, because numbers are not letters.-Hey, what waves.He kept giving the shoulder with my index finger and the teacher kept talking and the writer was without looking.I started to worry because it could be that this was not thinking and writer, his body hard and this was just my imagination.-Hey, writer, look, what you've done.I said in a whisper to the teacher we do not shut up. But the writer went back to me. The people around me because I did Sshhh wanted it to stop trying to make friends with the writer.'Look, when we take a Pilsener, which this time were pending.The writer stopped writing. I think he recognized my voice. He turned and looked me straight circles. I threw the pen with which he wrote to the face, hit me directly in the right eyelid, with a strong and sharp pain.I say, seriously: there is nothing that hurts more than the stroke of the pen of a writer enraged.
jueves, 23 de junio de 2011
En el Google Chrome hay una cosita pequeñita (un botón) que traduce las páginas si uno quiere. Me dio risa porque por accidente le di "traducir" al blog cuando lo revisaba, y el resultado fue una serie de entradas bastante ilógicas. Una de las que me pareció más chistosa fue una que escribí hoy, sobre "El Escritor". La mayoría tiene poco sentido, pero me sorprende lo mucho que se entiende. La línea final, sin embargo, me encanta con su gramática extraña y sonido vagamente poético.