Koldo Garcia Izaguirre packed his bag before entering the suitcase and placing some new sneakers, approximately size 48, and other untidy clothes in the luggage. People are asked what they would take to the island … Deserted and it is appropriate to ask him what will take him to the train that makes noises at this hollow hour of white neon, the noise of locks, and the density of routine. I was taking my craft ax to a desert island from Jáuregui’s workshop in Urnieta that I recently purchased, a gem that cuts firewood like a laser and firewood is known to heat up twice: when it is burned and when it is cut.
I understand a lot To Koldo and AbalosAnd his cigarette that does not fade in the corner of his lips, and the thread of his smoke rises to that sky of traitors, Madrid in November, a bouquet of flowers for some lady, and the neon lights and jokes for which I feel an unjustified, but real, devotion. One can’t help but feel sorry for Jose Luis and Koldo who are going Soto del Real With his blanket on his back as Ignatius bears his death by lying in Frederick’s Epitaph. The blanket, like hope, is the last thing we lose, although they will have to hurry to sing, because, like hope, it too is lost. I also have a blanket of virgin wool, a good blanket for going into the pigeon-house with ax and gun on one of those cold, north-windy days when the pigeons fly with the wind on their tail, away like government-saved Air Europa planes.
Black mourning
Today Abalos and Koldo walk into the suitcase, and the neon lights in My Españita go out at half mast
The colosphere, which is the cosmic space that lies between the colosphere and the atmosphere Sanchez Empire Already closed for demolition, it has that point between mafia and naivety, of unfortunate but well-mannered golf that doesn’t resist mercy. I’m not coming here to defend Abalos and Koldo – but I might – from the Sanctuary class protecting their catastrophe where they hired some street thugs, of course, now look. Sanchismo, with a Sabine tinge of patchouli and political corruption, the treaties with Beldo and the amnesty of seven votes that left us broken, comes from the same stream as Koldo and José Luis. They benefit from it, no matter how humiliated they are now by that new elite aesthetic in which many adverbs are spoken and the “words” are mixed with the notorious “bullshit fundraising.” Today, Abalos and Koldo enter the bag, the neon lights of My Españita go down to half mast, and the bachata goddess who still accepts the compliment to go out dancing in Madrid cries inconsolably. Sanchismo cannot be understood without the original inferiority complex that he tries to replace with master’s degrees, Top Gun glasses on board the Falcon ship nine thousand meters above the Mariana Trench, international tours with Trudeau’s socks, and interviews with the voice of the new “singer” of authoritarianism. And this cannot be understood without Koldo or Abalos, their true honor – but honor nonetheless – and their eternal blanket that they will, alas, one day throw away.