There are three tunnels and all provide access to the city. There are three cities, too, superimposed with poorly planned highways. The entrances and exits coincide. Sometimes there is a tremendous traffic jam and drivers get pissed off, isolated in their cars. That's road life. In the urbanity notebook, everyone looks calm and happy. Forgot to turn KITT on. Capital enters through the old air conditioning filters. No wonder. The right to shared pollution. To breathe deeply what we are, that's why I live here, in the three cities, and reasons are twisted like spaghetti junctions sucked in by the indigestion of the everyday. Everything gets in the way. Yesterday we wanted to shoot his eye and we aimed right. Today it's his fault for getting between our desire and our vision. Blindness is his. Who speaks the same song in three languages? Taylor—we repeat without thinking. Thinking about it is not the apogee of goodness. Kindness is not driving reluctantly. Nor is beauty, from classic corners, almost drawing sighs from us. But no. It is a racing car. Maybe. Understanding “maybe” in a humble way and then obscuring the form. Fast and Furiously. Zang Tum Tum. And well, detours in tunnels and blackouts and trying to get out alive with the low beams of the bigger car that runs faster all the better to eat you. That is how they interpose and interfere. And without looking you in the eye. Your blindness.
I have inner tunnels where I kept all the nicotine. I was going to need it at times like this. She doesn't know what she does. But thinking I'll find out is a future that annihilates itself and the self that we believed to be. Everything preposes and precedes and your performative relationship with the future will perhaps be what saves us. Stay alert for its activation. It will have to be en masse because the ozone covers us all like whipped cream on hot choc. And we all go out for the weekend to the south and kill each other and the corpses remain in the ditches and then a butcher comes and cuts their throats. So, maybe not in a humble way. But from the open entrails of a child in Gaza. There they smoke bombs, there vision responds to the desire to take out your eyes and eat them. Or to have them eaten by pigs. Cling Cling. Clooney’s donation arrives just in time.
Nobody went hungry at home yesterday. The strike goes on as the ending of Copa America—or so they say if you simplify the desire to destroy everything and stay watching football. The cleaning ladies assure that they cleaned the graffiti. When I leave the tunnel, I will enter Santa María Avenue that runs along the Mapocho River. Everyone has repeated its filth ad nauseam and it has never been revealed itself pristine. Here the relationship with the rivers has never been easy. Conquerors prepose and precede. Proposed and preceded. The city, which is three, regurgitates its waste, which accumulates in the ditch with the corpses and the dogs and the trees dragged by the last Pacific cyclone. Here big brands are reduced to their wrappers—one would say almost with joy—and they rise in a gust in the most South American Pie.
Who is going to type the latest epic? CarPlay automatically lights up with GoogleMaps, the song, Major Tom, the mind, happily, with the words of the most exciting and affective hum, automatically, the mind along the Milky Way of the most careless and anti-anti-heroine hero. The southern highway. Its southern triangle. Our furniture. No concrete is able to translate the waste of time in which conscience and its electrical paths are submerged. This is dis-stance. With all the fear it implies. Sparks smell of burning or its putrid adversary, the perennial sinusitis that has little to do with thoughtful readings and much with the ten chimneys that never turn off on Costanera Norte, by the General Velásquez exit. Hueá, hueón, dude, these are things that happen to my tongue and they are said loosely, alone, they interpose and interfere, like vital obstacles happily diverting me from an objective that was unclear in the first place. Let's hum together: es mi viaje / no es mi viaje. How much longer until we get there? Automatically.
After the impulse of saliva to project itself against disgust with disgust. I rush to the second traffic jam. The most painful, because it is so close to my house. I could leave the car and walk. Open the door and stop twisting coherence. Follow the dots far from the circle. Actually, I am so far away. Who would say I twist it. At any moment return is activated. But no. The biggest and ugliest car interposes and interferes. After the impulse, the car. After breathing, the car. In polish and obscured. Before and after the verbal construction. The spit was directed at their desire to eat our eyes. The writing to supersede the limits against which we are strained. The ropes, at their visions. The death drive is the most accurate drive. In inactivity. Resembles desire. The white sacks. The car. The interposed and interfered Aljazeera broadcast. They prepose and precede to cover your eyes that want to eat. I keep the spit in a white handkerchief. The car, my polluting and polluted uterus. Today was not a good day. Beyond the variations of mood. The moiré pattern of the garage door. The flatness of death. Our road life. The basis of the re the re the reality.