Angel's hunter.. (Colaboración de Alberto Montaño en la traducción)

I sleep with you in my arms again. Dream decomposed by the dim battle of my ego. Then I am drowning in alcohol, knowing that action triggered a chain of events that would probably lead to a symbolic suicide, leading to a terrible climax knowing that you will not answer the phone, but him. He who has stolen you for itself, leaving me with a bunch of thousand ideas and a future that looks too far to run after him. Open the refrigerator and among the thousand and one nonsense that we cook together, the kind that made you laugh so delightfully, the tersest, farther sack. Which was cooked before the other. In addition, in a fit of anger toss to the wall. It is broken into pieces, while each broken piece of a purplish eye looks. All staring at me and blaming. Have I been to blame? I think so. However, I would do it all, but knowing that means losing you again, because I know I was right. Never give anything wrong, but my dying heart, then rose again to hold it at the top and drop. Therefore, in this creature that now looks a rare grayish and this almost lifeless prescribe some verses ever read. Moreover, I will give them to eat. Surely, you will vomit, but I have to worry about sweeping the floor with them as they absorb and still the last feast that mean his certain death.
Open the window. It is late. Time seems not to have changed at all. The streets I see from my hotel are full of people. Thousands of swarming stories alive, fiery, stubborn in their desire and rotting in your crowd. the squares with food, locate wood with canvas covers unleashed a sea of ​​heat beneath them, multicolored noise that adorn every position, every sale, every dream come true to the sound of the old banjo that child who aged, fervently recites the only notes you learned in your life, those notes leading vibrant agony in a mass of broken hopes and his broken to leave the love of his life with another soul. And then, I related to that illustrious personage, one Indian named Juan, hunter of old angels, I am ready to look beyond the pink to my room dismisses the world in a bed that is not, even by mistake, tones of sweet roses .