When
When the other girls to go, nothing any teenager, skipping the line in Sorata , came into his hands, in my eyes, bunches of other languages from other lands, other stories: Meursault, Die-hop, Mother-hop. When. And I was the girl who was reading The Stranger as one reads the palm of your hand. Aujourd'hui, maman est morte. Today. Ou peut-être hier. Such time. J'ai reçu a Télégramme de l'asile, "Mother dead. Funeral tomorrow. Condolences. " Cela ne veut rien dire. It was perhaps ontem. Ou to-ontem Ontem. Mom will be dead. Died. Cede. Decede. And jump. Endlessly jumps. As the tongue. As the girl out. From language to language. As the wild settings portuñol-Chicano or Mexican. Salta. As Salta (sallqa "? Sallka? Samko?). As Sorata. That aymara. Aymara language says the jury, in its way, borrow borrow, sworn. Abroad is the language. Is not there. So my friends at another border, in Ciudad Juarez, on that other archifrontera, choose to speak, of course, dentures (say: posmaterna language), but remain Stuck with it?, without cheating though, on the banks motherfucker, mother of all shells. Open court, I say to the court that had no name, no native or alternative, or posnativo, what is on the verge of coming, to come to invent. Such Sorata. Such Paraguayan eating soup (falling) apart. Perhaps the chairo quechuaymara at the tip of the tongue. The strange. Strange spider today Ragunan. Knitting, weaving and Despeckle and without plot or Descreen, love. Sea. ExtraMED . Again - this time - at home.
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