What we just saw in the video was a real decapitation.
Pro-pa-gan-da. First we should identify the victim. Images, three days after the full moon: first piece of extrapolated information to consider. But we have almost 3,000 disappeared veterans today. Limiting, limiting, limiting… Science has led us to a park, south of Los Angeles. Lose all hope as I move, first a bank, in front of Bateman, after Dante: shed skin, the children dress here, in front of a dump (“Do you have a quarter,” one of them, “But they’re not worth anything anymore,” my response, “Can I have all of them then?”). Terrible but convincing: every time we arrive, they are able to surprise. But we arrive too much: the mountains have moved and the highway to Mosul disappears? “Where we are now doesn’t look like a country, it looks like the cracks that appear between the borders,” The Cranium, while I approach, as though he had been reading my thoughts. “I resist, as anyone else like me would,
or any other winter: clenching fists and teeth both. I don’t know how to ride a bike anymore. Where do the bullets go now? I am. And I resist,” the abovementioned Cranium of the ex-marine, now in my hands, & “Let us leave to see the other side of the storm. We left to not see our enemies grow old. We left ultimately to manufacture the skeleton key. So this is how long the thing with beauty lasts, however, back from the East,” the victim lays with silk pajamas, & “In my dreams the night before last, a serpent sang below my house, and with my nasal congestion: a sigh before (as big as a circus tent)* and a sigh after. Bracing the house outside was an enormous, kilometers-long, steel phallus,” he himself, he himself. Seeing my search for cause-effect, he will respond with a “Maybe not. But from that time on, slowly, I’ve been approaching the exit,” and, while I take notes, with a “You can record me in History. But when the wind spreads out its wings, this paper will be folded and empty.” We, my team, left the cordoned off area, “Come back soon, because, it seems, at some point it will snow again,” and we asked for all sorts of evidence with haste, “The century is swift too.
The whores are beaten daily. And today all the colors runs, nothing is solid.
This is my new homeland for the new times,” The Cranium, of course.
TS Hidalgo (45) holds a BBA (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid), an MBA (IE Business School), an MA in Creative Writing (Hotel Kafka), and a Certificate in Management and the Arts (New York University). His works have been published in magazines in the USA, Canada, Mexico, Argentina, Colombia, Chile, Venezuela, Nicaragua, Germany, UK, France, Spain, Turkey, Ireland, Portugal, Romania, Nigeria, South Africa, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana, India, Singapore and Australia, and he has been the winner of prizes like the Criaturas feroces (Editorial Destino) for short stories and a finalist at Festival Eñe for novels. He has currently developed his career in finance and the stock market.