Charles Bukowski A Veces Estoy Tan Solo Que Tiene Sentido Pdf I <Windows Fresh>

That was the loneliness that made sense. Not the dramatic kind. Not the kind with rain and sad violins. The real kind—the kind that felt like a fact. Like gravity. Like the number of teeth you had left. It didn’t hurt anymore. It just was . Like a broken stair you learned to step over.

“See?” he mumbled to the empty room. “Even the pests give up.”

At 4:00 a.m., he poured the cooking sherry. It tasted like regret mixed with cough syrup and a hint of rotting plum. It was perfect. He drank it warm, straight from the bottle, standing at the window in his underwear. The city was a grid of yellow lights, each one a cage with a different kind of animal inside. Couples sleeping back-to-back. Insomniacs watching infomercials. Children with fevers. None of them knew he existed. None of them would have cared if they did. That was the loneliness that made sense

He typed one more line. Then he pulled the paper out, folded it once, and put it in his pocket. Someday, someone would find it. Or not. That was the point.

I am so alone that the walls have started to listen. They don’t answer, but they don’t leave either. That’s more than most people. The real kind—the kind that felt like a fact

He stared at the last line. It was a lie. He couldn’t remember a good day. There were days that were less bad. Days where the landlord forgot to knock. Days where the corner store gave him credit. But a good day? That was a myth for people who believed in God or mutual funds.

Then he wrote:

He finished the sherry. The bottle joined the cockroach on the floor. He thought about calling someone. His ex-wife. His bookie. The woman with the gold tooth. But his hand didn’t move. The phone was an artifact from another century. A black rotary with a tangled cord. He hadn’t heard a human voice in six days. The last one was the grocer saying, “That’ll be four eighty-five.” He’d paid with nickels.

The cockroach died at 3:17 a.m. It lay on its back near the base of the typewriter, six legs pointed toward the cracked ceiling like a tiny, overturned throne. Henry Chinaski, or whatever was left of him, watched it for a full hour. He didn’t kill it. It just ran out of reasons to keep going. It didn’t hurt anymore