[Translated version of 'El ciempiés']
Author's note: I have been writing for about an hour and the big centipede that yells, ordering me to keep writing, paradoxically has been devouring every page as soon as I was finished writing them. Now it has just fallen asleep, so I will try to carry on with my story of tonight, but I cannot guarantee that the centipede won't wake up and fall sleep again, so I beg your pardon if you find unrelated parts in the story. It is six in the morning.
-We're like werewolfs - he* said -. We sing to the moon every night, no matter if it's full or empty like our bottles.
I liked the idea, so I immersed myself in the milkshake of electronic music and people of the club. I got closer to a blonde girl who seemed to be made-up like in a Van Gogh painting** and we lacerated out bodies with the friction or fiction of oblivion.
At some point they turned the lights on and, as nocturnal animals, we headed to the exit to come back to the darkness. Outside the club, asphalt flakes were falling and everyone was running to the cars, the taxis, the buses, their homes, everyone soaking of that grey and sticky substance. I found an asphalt-shelter under a balcony, next to a girl who was giving a deep puff to a joint.
-Writers like you rush to vomit noise in your ink rivers, without realizing that, actually, you only seek silence - she told me.
We ended up at her home, untying seconds, breaking the desired silence among kisses and moans of her bed's springs, which sounded like worn-out sex. Yet after, when the sheets had grown like vines around our bodies , there was an instant when we joined through our skins, like two raindrops join together, and she poured her secrets inside me and I poured mines inside her.
I was in the street again and several unusual events occurred on my way home through unknown ways which I don't remember since I didn't see. Asphalt flakes had stopped falling so the streets were already placed and recovered from tonight's excellent excesses. One could still breathe the clean cold air previous to the sunrise, although sometimes an early mechanical beast would appear, roaring like junk and opening wounds in the darkness with its shiny eyes. Then the beast would disappear, bringing us (I mean, the centipede and me) back to the clean and cold silence, as if it would have been only a temporary disturbance and after the oblivion maelstrom would have devoured it and it would have ended up in another world's daybreak.
*In Spanish, subject is not necessary to be said or written, "he" just refers to a friend of the author.
**In Spanish we can also use the verb "painted" for "made-up".
