Outside our cages

I just saw a fat woman trying on the wedding dress of her life and crying. As you can see, there is a program where the Basque is dedicated to that: a thord who says that she is getting married takes her mother and her friends to an expensive store to choose the wedding dress. There, a TV records them releasing their mismatches - and their tears - and running alive when they tell jai how beautiful she is. I, at times like these, always think of the swine flu that came a long time ago. I do not know why, but I always think the same thing, and I imagine the swine flu viruses devouring the fat girlfriend of the TV, and her mother, and the zorris of her friends, and giving her imbecile boyfriend for the eyelet and everything else. I think a lot of these things, almost all day. It seems the most normal thing in the world.

Now, with the thing, I've gotten bigger and I've done a couple of zapping rounds for the twenty-nine TV channels on the floor. My weakness is that of diviners who are experts in mediumship [sic]. Some of them say something silly that makes you wish Diana, the V-series, would have sent us, in the eighties, all the humans into the conversion chamber. For example, there was an uncle a couple of years ago who said he had won a contest of fortune tellers in Avignon (Victor and I flipped with this). The thing is not what it would have gained. I was intrigued by what the hell, among all the cities in the world, the jambo chose Avignon. There is another aunt, named Aida, who gives marriage and health advice and always says goodbye by raising her arms and saying "a kiss of light". Then there is another long-haired guy who starts dancing disco music and makes moves that he will consider suggestive while holding a crystal ball. There are very fucking people on TV, really.

So tonight I had few things to do. The TV and its suburbs, listen on the radio -25, the compass, the flashlight, 24 hours- how bad everything is despite the upturn today of the world's stands and the rise of the most valued ibex35 values, more books, more movies ... Emergency solution: Jack's drink - that friend who never fails - a record of Sonny Rollins that I bought yesterday - the only big one I've ever seen live - and sadly dropping my jeremiads in a new post.

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In fact, I have run out of space to talk about The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum , a novel by Heinrich Böll, which was what I wanted to talk about. This, Böll, was a guy who had been hanging out for many years. Since 99, at least, when I was in first year of career and I had no other occurrence to choose as "Second language and its Literature" German. I was already reading Nietzsche in German, with all my balls. Just like that time I enrolled in the conservatory because I wanted to learn to play the piano. The fuck was that first I had to swallow a whole year of solfeggio and the piano neither smelled it. Of course, I do not know how to play the organ, although I have my first approved of a solfeggio, of course. The fact is that the teacher of that subject, Kurt noséqué, spoke to us from time to time of literature. And I was struck by the name of Heinrich Böll, it would be because of the umlaut, which made it very exotic. And I remember naming that little novel, just a hundred pages, The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum . Also the title caught my attention. That a lady with that respectable name lost something as important as honor put me a lot to me at that time, also now.

Poor Katharina took away the honor of falling in love. To the honorable brides of the tele they take them in prime time so that all we want to have a life bortadela like theirs. The seers honorably awarded in avignons and other distant cities cast their letters and share their kisses of light to solve the problems of the people at the rate of euro sixty a minute. I hurry the second jack. Artaud saw it clearly: "I destroy myself to know that it is me and not all of them".

THE REPORT below is based on a few secondary and three major sources, which are named at the beginning once but are not mentioned again later. The main sources are police reports, attorney Dr. Hubert Blorna and prosecutor Peter Hach, a colleague of the former, who - confidentially, it is understood - completed the summary, adding certain actions of the authority and the results of various investigations. Needless to stress that this work was unofficial, and that its conclusions were exclusively for private use, because the prosecutor came to the soul the disgust of his friend Blorna. He could not find an explanation for what had happened, and yet, "if I analyzed it well, it did not seem inexplicable, but rather logical." The case of Katharina Blum, in view of the attitude of the accused and the difficult position of her advocate, Dr. Blorna, will appear, however, more or less fictitious, and certain small inaccuracies, such as those committed by Hach, are understandable and even excusable. It is not necessary to mention the secondary sources, some of major and minor ones, since the same report will prove their links, entanglements and confusions, and will show the dismay they produced.