The first question, Luis, is whether writing to you using the second person is a literary device. From the outset, it involves a melodramatic, gimmicky positioning. I don’t get another one. It can be a vulgarity, a tacky one, an already initial concession to the easy tear. If you like, I’ll write you in the third plural, as if you were the referee trio. Nah.
I can only use the second singular because for me you are the protagonist of next Sunday. We go back to the Bernabéu, Luis. You were left without knowing that we were without him, and that we were without him because of the same shit that made us without you, so you should start over, although you already know everything without knowing it. The temple was closed to us and we used it to store medicines. Then we went to play a closed Di Stéfano and we won the League with more balls than you can imagine. Afterwards we played another whole season at Di Stéfano and it was regular. A tremendous move, Rubio, but you already know that as things are known from there, that is, through us, not because we told you, that there is no way to tell you, but because we vicariously experience it for you. That’s why I’m going back to the Bernabéu on Sunday, Luis. To live it in your place.
A tremendous move, Rubio, but you already know that as things are known from there, that is, through us, not because we told you, that there is no way to tell you, but because we vicariously experience it for you. That’s why I’m going back to the Bernabéu on Sunday, Luis. To live it in your place
Then there are more things. We didn’t win anything and Zidane left, pricing. Then Ramos left, semitarifando also. We sold to Varane. The latter is what has perplexed you the most, you don’t have to (no) tell me. If I tell you that Ancelotti came back later, you make me the Baghdad tanks on the table, but you have to (not) believe it because it’s true. We have signed Alaba, who I think I remember you liked a lot, and also Camavinga, a name with sub-Saharan resonances that surely would have given you for many Makelelesque jokes of clappers and plasters. Let’s see who is going to tell us, at José Luis, these bullshit that we can’t help but anticipate. We’ll say them for you too, and we’ll even have to pay for you, even though it’s completely obvious that Sunday was the M’s turn. It was that, Rubio, you know that well.
The game is at nine o’clock and, how could it be otherwise, we met at a quarter to four to start the line-up. We will order a gin and tonic that will be like Roy Orbison’s unoccupied rocking chair in that Traveling Wilburys video, and will preside over the solemn reboot ceremony. We will have rusty Sunday meninges, numb knees, forgetful of how to climb the third amphitheater. All this strikes you, of course, because the line in the center of the field continues to pass precisely and exactly between your right egg and your left egg, now more than ever, five feet above Florentino, but let us poor people let us complain about the ailments that have worsened in this time. Almost a year and a half, Luis, and I don’t know if I’ll have the strength — the muscular one and the other — to climb up there. My soul trembles, Luis, something out there shrinks me very hard, but there is no other option than to do a manual “we said yesterday” and ignore the parentheses, leave it behind like a used mask. I believe that we are going to put Militâo because he is made a beast even though he will just land after his bowling and not bowling overseas, and I also think that Carlo (yes: Carlo) will put Camavinga as the starter. Don’t worry, I don’t think Isco will play, and I’ll tell that Mon, or the one who touches him, to be inflexible with his galernaut notes. The general is still parking and the bastard will be fine, thank you, doing the kaffir as is his obligation. All of Madrid, calm down, we keep them away from harmful influences.
We will order a gin and tonic that will be like Roy Orbison’s unoccupied rocking chair in that Traveling Wilburys video, and will preside over the solemn reboot ceremony.
I do not rule out an exterminating angel effect in the last minutes of José Luis. People will stay like in Buñuel’s movie, knowing that they have to go in because nine o’clock is approaching but without finishing the action for indefinable reasons that nobody verbalizes. No one will even dare to say that it is not launched despite the fact that we will all know that nobody dares even when it is time, despite the fact that we will all know that there are hymns to sing, tributes to offer, stunted applause to rehabilitate, goals to celebrate. We’ll be a bit like Jeremy Renner in The Hurt Locker, when after spending months defusing bombs in Afghanistan, as if nothing else, he is paralyzed by the simple choice of toilet paper in a supermarket. What a normal thing, west side second vomitory amphitheater 63, and yet how difficult. So wait a bit there is time, tell the captain to ask us for one more beer and a clear one and a couple of sirloin skewers, I continue to tremble at the simple prospect of Benzema getting constipated, what are we going to do if he fucks us up In one of those damn bowling alleys in France, at bad times he has returned even though we are happy for him, with lemon for me, please.
Well, we will have to go up, right?
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We will have to go up – La Galerna