I woke up one morning just as I did the day before it. Of course it is a day I do not know. Passed things so fast, so fast that my memories went into a freezing step, since then, I live covered with fur coats made of bears and whales whale still smell traces of his blood. Finally, this morning I get up and I continue to shave but then I stop. Throw the knife on the lavatory and entered the bedroom to yell at my wife, because soap is not the brand I like and she always meekly pleasantly brings me after spending hours queuing to pay at a supermarket tenders. These are the dilemmas of each morning in Orange City, about trying to get sad, other events less taciturn, away from routine security officers shot out the windows in the joys of bullets.
