It seems to me that I look for a new disaster every day: I make enemies daily.
They are poor worms: they are not going to travel with me until the United States: I will travel with the rubiecita of the street that takes to the cemetery in an old coupe Ford 67.
It will be a great day when it leaves this well of snakes and it directs to me to Bahia, Brazil, and later it follows the way, like another Kerouac.
Nothing concerns to me of this rotted, full world of stupid idiot and cowards fast talkers.
Only sex, music, the alcohol and the drugs can justify this life that continues being into the hands of the demons.
It leaves in the car your clothes, baby, sweet Solange, and you do not say goodbye to anybody. A new life in Pensacola begins with me, with us; escupe to these pigs that not even adore the Devil: we are singing and taking whiskey until our Destiny decides by itself.
Baby: you will be my eyes that no longer see at night and my mind that no longer sees the clear days.
Charlie
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