I | Charles Bukowski A Veces Estoy Tan Solo Que Tiene Sentido Pdf

“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. “See

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