The first book — The longest day

logicapsule 3.1

«Blessed be chaos, because it’s a symptom of freedom» (Enrique Tierno Galván)

Is all began the day my convictions vanished before my eyes like false friends, leaving me naked to a reality I had always tried to escape. All of my resolutions in life went up in smoke, and behind them appeared an old idea that was always in my thoughts, hidden like a tiny tumor waiting for its moment to screw my life over by becoming the size of a soccer ball. That day the idea became a command and it was loaded into my brain to shape my destiny. That’s how the future I had designed for myself went straight to hell and I was possessed in body and spirit by chaos, becoming its prophet.

You see, today I’m a snob with the ambition to become one of the most famous cyber-chroniclers in Upper-Madrid. At seven in the morning I’m at the rave in tunnel 84, stoned up to my eyeballs on metabetas and dancing with the virgos Djtrann is projecting from his pila. A tip-off from one of my sayters gets me out of the rave, and puts me on the trail of none other than the origin of the gang war 

that has filled the entire Cesspool with bodies in just a few days, especially crippling sector B-3.

My convictions, embellished and as hot as two twisting dancers from the Black Rose, make me fantasize about managing to write the chronicle that everyone’s looking for. I imagine myself inside one those luxurious Upper-Madrid boxes, snorting pure comaine and fucking five pop-stars in a giant bed with silk sheets. But I crangry and the fantasy fades as soon as I reach the B-3 sector access. Do you know why? Simply because a lot of time has been put into showing the suits who’s boss to escape that sector that ate me up inside all throughout my childhood. I left when I was fifteen, swearing to never return again, until I managed to live in the uptown sector B-1 for a few years, tasting the sweet flavor of a luxurious life in Upper-Madrid. But once again I find myself walking through the streets where my parents died with a thousand tumors in their bodies, from recycling the waste of the rich from up top.

Is all began the day my convictions vanished before my eyes like false friends, leaving me naked to a reality I had always tried to escape. All of my resolutions in life went up in smoke, and behind them appeared an old idea that was always in my thoughts, hidden like a tiny tumor waiting for its moment to screw my life over by becoming the size of a soccer ball.

That day the idea became a command and it was loaded into my brain to shape my destiny. That’s how the future I had designed for myself went straight to hell and I was possessed in body and spirit by chaos, becoming its prophet.

You see, today I’m a snob with the ambition to become one of the most famous cyber-chroniclers in Upper-Madrid. At seven in the morning I’m at the rave in tunnel 84, stoned up to my eyeballs on metabetas and dancing with the virgos Djtrann is projecting from his pila.

A tip-off from one of my sayters gets me out of the rave, and puts me on the trail of none other than the origin of the gang war that has filled the entire Cesspool with bodies in just a few days, especially crippling sector B-3. My convictions, embellished and as hot as two twisting dancers from the Black Rose, make me fantasize about managing to write the chronicle that everyone’s looking for.

I imagine myself inside one those luxurious Upper-Madrid boxes, snorting pure comaine and fucking five pop-stars in a giant bed with silk sheets. But I crangry and the fantasy fades as soon as I reach the B-3 sector access. Do you know why? Simply because a lot of time has been put into showing the suits who’s boss to escape that sector that ate me up inside all throughout my childhood.

I left when I was fifteen, swearing to never return again, until I managed to live in the uptown sector B-1 for a few years, tasting the sweet flavor of a luxurious life in Upper-Madrid. But once again I find myself walking through the streets where my parents died with a thousand tumors in their bodies, from recycling the waste of the rich from up top.

The longest day — Part 01 | 1 of 2

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