September

Wearing no underwear, faced with the same situation, and at approximately ten at night: I’m fixing a quick meal. I try combinations of macaroni, egg, and beans: a disaster. The possibilities for fixing macaroni are reduced to the cooking time. Those for fixing eggs to economics (with or without oil). As for the beans, I don’t have many options beyond warming them up.

With no real time, and as I pick up a fork lying on the floor, I think that time is a pedantic magnitude, and I serve the beans absolutely cold on a flat plate.
I don’t know why I imagine well-arranged garbage cans and a trash collection system that works. I polish off the spoonful and run to open the macaroni.

The other day I had a dream. I was in the cemetery of a developed country, because everything was incredibly clean. A dream. I connect it to the idea of the trashcans; I spear a macaroni, but since I’m barefoot and the stove is electric I feel the current. The fork falls again; the smell of what’s boiling clouds my sight.

The pot where the macaronis are immersed emits steam that sticks to the ceiling. I tell myself, it’s hard to survive amidst filth. The pestilence hems in the possibility of olfactory expansion. Nevertheless, the smell of what’s boiling gets stronger and stronger, and it mixes with the steam from the bathroom, the smell of the neighbor’s soap that runs up against the stench of the ducks, also neighbors.

I abandon everything for a cigarette. I close myself up so much that I prefer the smell of re-heated grease. The spitting of the lard, a rain of volcanic acid: death, if we weren’t so fit for the continual bubbling of excrescences. Spattering that philosophizes, in my opinion. End of the cigarette; aim it at the ashtray and serve the macaroni. I check on the egg while I follow the line drawn by one of those common salamanders: black dots on stained and crumbling tiles.