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    Wandering about the whole evening through the wet and foggy streets of my town, I found myself lost in the bitterness of my own thoughts. As I got closer to a cafe; a tiny and overwhelming place, fluttering the smell of recently made coffee and sweets, the thought of getting in and sitting down there a while, to get my stuff straight was in crescendo. I sat by the front crystal, viewing the street in front of me, with scattered passengers by just as I was a moment before. I pulled out a notebook, a gnawed notebook by the time, with it’s spine awkwardly fixed with masking tape, and black front a back covers, titled with word “Diary” in it with white ink —though it was just a writing notebook, and nothing to do with a diary, even so, I wrote it myself—.

    An old hunched man, with little glasses that made his eyes wide looking, white hair, badly combed, and dressed as formally as an adult his age, come to me and asked me what I was having. 
    `A black coffee, please sir.´ I said, with a quite smile in my face.
    The day didn’t start well; I looked at my hands, all dirty from dried paint and black ink. But my frugal stay at the cafe made me feel a lesser down. Maybe it was the weather, a repetitive weather of wind and  drizzle, with occasional storms. I like that weather, but somehow at the same time it makes me feel more. As I said, the day didn’t start well, got a terrible headache, a nonsensical headache that accompanied me all the day along and part of the next, followed with the previous feeling of the month of November which is a depressive languishment of feeling too much nothing.
    Minutes later the old man returned with my coffee and a little piece of cake. I thanked him and got back my look at my notebook: what are we trying to write today? I said to myself. There I stayed, a couple of minutes more, contemplating the view of a pair of eyes that weren’t looking but seeing everything —perhaps nothing. I opened it. Grabbed the thread that was doing the function of a bookmark and open it entirely. And I tried to write something.
    A couple of bastard flies were fluttering around my head, perhaps because of my smell of death, perhaps because it was just so cold outside. They would land from time to time over my paper, on my hand,  on the edge of my cup of coffee… I didn’t mind them so much, even though they were a bit of a nuisance. I’ve always saw that creature as a sign of boredom, of mental and physical death —a symbol of my current stay of things. My house, a little untidy apartment far downtown, was at this time of the year, flooded with flies, so much, I even considerate them a guest of my own dwelling from October until February.
    I picked up the pen, a transparent, classic,  plastic pen of blue ink, with its opposite end all bitten, almost broke; took a sip of the coffee —the cake was of the flies— and wrote a little story of none but an alter ego, stumbling the streets, complaining about life, existence and the nonsensical procedures of what he calls “Providence”.
    That story led to not much conclusion, and was just a mixture of scattered thoughts and cries; and howls and screams.

    And the so I left the cafe, with more ink and paint, of art and prose, in the palms of my hand, than in that paper.