Far from being well off for those four days without intoxicating his soul, he looked as if he was in a state of putrefaction, and not only because of his physical appearance. More than twenty lines of the same sentence were coming from inside him.
\nI could no longer bear this burden without her, without being aware of the details of her face, of her laughter, of the ingenuity that accompanied her at all times. Without her strange faces and her gestures that articulated over and over again the same crude imitation.
\nI no longer wanted a day without filling my mouth with gadgets or my veins with synthetic melancholy.
\nThe red eyes were the perfect detail, the pale face and cold hands were the complement. Abstinence had him almost dead, almost breathless.
\nHe believed that those around him would betray him as they did Christ. He felt he was on the Mount of Olives.
\nThis sensation was not a hallucination, much less a psychotic condition, but rather a kind of regression, like a time tunnel.
\nI hadn't been able to sleep for two days with my eyes almost as red as a bacha about to be extinguished.
\nHis mouth tasted like acid, like the stale, naked bodies he had drawn in his mind. The feet almost undone and the heart a little more than that.
\nHe needed the muse, to feel that the cry that choked him was one of joy and not melancholy.
\nI couldn't take it anymore.
\nHe took a couple of pills, placed under his tongue a couple of drops and absorbed a mouthful that flooded his head with evils.
\nHe fell lying on the net. He dressed in the cold and in the corner of a park, in front of more than ten strangers, he exclaimed: everything will be all right.<\/p>\n