La Generación del Atardecer Presenta: Dizziness all over the walls, trozo final de On Route to the Golem’s Tummy. Ánimos y conductos, haciendo presión uno contra otro, dándole funciones, operaciones de vida-muerte al traficante, al centinela y a los insectos que en toda (des)comformidad son chispa y gasolina en cada espacio.
- Writing our names on the flesh of the concrete wonder, what else could be done? -

Peripheral District, Charmes.
2:13 am
Dizziness all over the wall, an uncontrollable euphoria gripped me, and I knew all too well that a return was no longer possible. I put my hands over the bar and stood up, the musical egotism pouncing every single orifice in my body, pores aching. How had I arrived to this state? What insipid stranger is keeping me here? Is there a memory? Why are all these questions necessary? I looked to my right and a boulder of a man was all over the bar, barely keeping himself together, screaming things like “I’ll kill you motherfucker, I’ll kill you!” and “if destiny fails, you better run to the casino!”. Like some aware fox I pulled myself together; time and space had returned to me. The current spectacle triggered images in my unfocused head about my purpose on this town “the packages!” I shouted slamming the beer into the counter. Nobody paid attention, there was just too many things going on at once in there, so I move. This underground tavern has hidden demons within it, tits and sugar, delicious algorithms on every corner, to study, but only with the right kind of ocular apparatus at the correct occasion. “I must be going officer; have to get some stuff done.” He kept looking at me like, not being able to define who I was; just dangling on his stool defying some fundamental law of physics. My colleague finally nodded and I quickly ordered another round for us and some other fellas around the bar, the sort of gent that just pops out the night when drinks are on some foreign tab. “I’ll be back in an hour or so” I told my acquaintance, I left the grove at Mary’s café in haste, how could I had forgotten my sole task in this town, then again how could I had remembered, so many toxins in such a small period of time so much life on every melody. And the ever expanding market place of the hungry, natural and un-natural machinations to enhance the spirit, the brain, the psyche, so much greatness necessarily puts a halt to all pathological architectures, such as memories. Silly narratives, silly games and mysterious roles, they all raveled in it, you, me and I, they all conjured up their diagrams to develop and pinch in a little bit of more zas. That special salsa that comes off the good players, the savory son’s of bitches that for some reason are obliged to transgress, as an instinct, as a protocol, when intoxication opens up a highway of opportunity, mischief and pleasure.

“Not me, bullshit, fuck you, up yours, get laid, eat shit, drop dead, jack me off, suck this, I don’t need parts that badly, I’m not that sick!”
- George Carlin
Now onto the navigation of the underground cavern, this tremendous nest for sapients. The nighttime is enthusiastic indeed the streets are packed on some establishments, but at least I don’t feel like a goddamn red salmon on a can, floating on its own processed and fermented juices until some citizen of the good old colonies sinks its teeth into it. But I wasn’t gonna let them bite be, not this time. Neon fucking lights, influencing on many buildings, enticing the will of the dead titan, telling you where to walk, when to stop, mingle, but fuck n shit; hotness, aromas and steam in you face as I light another cigarette. And as I sit here looking at building’s smoky texture and the raving monsters all around me, I was lost, standing in front of what used to be a navigational point, which is now a home-made electricity dispenser for a near by cat- pinchos and fried rice on a plastic cup mobile kiosk . While I ventured into the intestines of the belly of the beast the signs became less obvious and rampant, literally there was less communication with the streets on a basic transit level, the directories and coordinates of the State seem to disappear, law mutates and living quarters follow this dispassion, its just the way to be, its just the way its survives nothing more nothing less. “Excuse me fella”, I said to this tall white dirty red headed guy attending the kiosk, “this way to Dillie-Sewter alleyway?” The bloke eyed me and pointed towards the end of the street, an antechamber made of zinc and cement, a few potted plants in the corners, rugs and jugs. I gave a protocolar salute to the gent and went in with a will of a bull in order to get the solicited goods.
“The eye cannot see itself — Everybody knew the times were rotten, bitten and mauled. We were not selected, we were not chosen, you were just classified by invisible hands, you as a seed of sapiency, ‘you Truth giver you’ were dropped in a garden beyond good and evil, and they really let the juices flow in and out, and the commotion took hold. The fluid ,sensory vitality watching and constantly undulating perception though to it self, “this is so”. Begin the mass age of mass constructs. And the complexity took us in, sipping in universe and collecting it, appalling it, creating landmasses in that oceanic monster that will devour us for sure. But we, as mere and very real hallucinations, monks of some lost age, we drove forth into the abyss laid by our fore fathers. Their morality was just, seductive and decadent enough to work us into and out the belly of the great Maya. And from here we make our Journey, resilient to acknowledge and let go of our symbolic mythologies organized as the private eye, Ātman.”
- xerxer’s log
2:57
This place is a huge forgotten pipeline, buildings have been erected even here on the remoteness of the abyss, even after the purges of the habiru wars, the great ghendi storms and the regional gravitational cataclysms… the sapient virus lingers on. For oh jolly! this city is but a series of excruciating perceptions, oscillating, consuming all the kinetic crisis, all around, learning itself by repetitions, by mandatory schizophrenia, a phantom merely resisting itself… and each other with this useless device we call a self, the inexorable fragmentation, the cognitive monsoon that is loss and alienation, where spectacular satisfactions are guaranteed if you’re willing.

SouthEastern District, Charmes.
“As an expert in disenchantment, I would have riddled the new zeals with all the arrows of dissolute wisdom — with courtesans, in skeptical brothels, or in circuses with lavish forms of cruelty. I would have filled my thinking with vice and blood to stretch logic to unheard of dimensions, as large as worlds that are dying.”
- Emil Cioran
Down at Vekman Boulevard, taking this a trip quite seriously, strategically stabilizing with breathing exercises, calming this insidious melting factor down the rumbling of my head; doubting with style. Outsiders, players and go-getters glide to get what it’s theirs, to and fro beyond the tissue of the town. For we long for the performative tasks, for the daily rituals flowing, flaming developing a recognizable patter for some unknown ghostly father. I arrive at some unnamed bar, the bartender comes my way with the general outlines of a bulldog, the man is clearly angry. But why I pondered many times over, but why indeed? “Is Ms. Scarlet available?” I asked the fuming bartender, “You’re late… go to the back stair case” he replied. “aye aye”. I walk alone into this dark passage, in betwixt two buildings, no windows towards the door that laid inexorably ahead. The door suddenly opens, a man comes of the portal at the end, it seems he was just kicked out, he’s cursing and spitting at the door, I make my way near him and he becomes startled, “motherfucker… I thought you were one of them…” he said. “No, not me, im just an ordinary citizen as yourself” I answered. I couldn’t notice it before, cause of all the somberness of the atypical moonlight passage way on the city’s liver, but the fella resembles a scarecrow, thin as a hose with a twisted pilgrims hat. “A man can’t get no drink anymore on his land without the intervention of horses like that!” He said while trembling and spiting in himself a little “Down wit the scum brother, now in the name of the spirits, move out of the way” I go inside and slam the door behind me. I reckon the man must be on a death wish, that recurrent questioning of all that is good and holy within the metaphors we strive for. But we have to survive. Inside the scent of cigarettes and loud conversations caught my attention. A gent was sitting by the sofa; he goes by the name of Ricky Le Plat, 4 other men are in the room, which 2 of them are visibly armed. “Your late” he said and business began.

Pit stop
Commerce adjourned, I got the packages from Mr. Le Plat, and quickly I found myself navigating tunnels and macabre roads at top speed, I have a deranged gorilla with an open wallet waiting to acquire more drinks and in no condition to be left alone, as he so without doubt was. My pace is quick but my muscles are failing me, my mood is going down I reckon, nothing a good sniff of some commanding dust wont alleviate. I spot an intranet booth and hop in there closing the door behind me, a small shelter from the vicious chaos and disarrangements of the night. Then I remembered a joke Marcelo one of Le plats guys told me happened to him a few hours earlier, down at El Paraiso motel, “I couldn’t fuck her man, the odor of her stanky taco filled the fucking room and brought tears to my eyes”. ‘Amazing’ I though then, how the body transgresses civilization, then again I wonder what was occurring within those lavia menora, in between the labia mayora, the cherry, and the hole, coming from with in her? This smell of bad news and viral uneasiness. Maybe his cognitive nose was the problem altogether, not willingly accepting that trick or treat pussy as it was dripping and served. To the task at hand I pour powder on the touch screen, and as I work my craft, dividing the chemical input. Absorbing the enhancers into the tissue; the screen goes awal receiving incoherent commands from my straw, and nose, and tongue by the twitching and spasms of joy and urgency. The booth takes shapes like never before, I can see the squares and the zeros, I can focus on infinity. The show goes on, I exit the booth onto the night
- QOTSA
4:21
Back at Mary’s Cafe, Im sweating, just got back from the procedure, Jyoti is talking to some women. “A wicked messenger breathes at your chamber door with the the sorrows of the dream you all had, you buffoons, you collaborators of the invisible crime, you misled children, retarded kings and queens of loss and doom!” I can see the girls are terrified, must I do something? perhaps intervene and order another round. “Its love, Its love” he yells at them. I quickly put myself between him and the women. “Who whoa there Jyoty you devil you, play nice” I say while putting my arm around him. “Is he ok?” one of the ladies asks, “He’s just practicing a performance, incorporating theater into the public, It’s his thesis” I replied “oh whoa” I heard them gasping “He’s really good” another one of them said. We left to another bar, I think Jyoty old boy here had over stepped our welcome somehow, I could sense monsters eyeing us all over the establishment, how many réglementations had Jyoty broken as I danced around the city? “I wanted to save them!” Jyoti kept insisting. “Those ladies can take care of themselves I reckon. Now we need to keep moving, because there’s a lot of karma to burn up tonight” I told him. Values transgress physics. Solid melts into air. The City of God burns (eternally?) to the ground at last; its institutions are on the rim of ruin. Or so we thought. All hail. The pressures of discharge my acquaintance officer Jyoty is feeling. Well we might riddle the riddle out of its head. Moral indignation will not suffice, the political landscape is omnipresent, pervades all, we are drenches in it, we revel in this, born into this as we are and the demon and the angels’ approach, to argue the rightful prey along the boundaries of despair and sound eloquence, this is a town of survivors and half breeds. Complex consumption at an alarming rate, will the body survive?, we roared, we were alive. And that was good enough for tonight.
“The pillars of our societies laid bared, starving, depleted in endless agony. The collateral damage splashes cheap perfume in our faces, while we continue to grip and put forth teleological games. The oh oh factor, that is, our indisposition to understand reality as residue of history and language within the study and creation of knowledge vis a vi of truths. The cannons take aim at a foundational epistemology and thus the specters, those truly sickened by the will to flee into concepts. Models of reality stemming from historical processes of belief systems rather than from “an ultimate vantage point”, be it rational, empirical, pragmatic, holy, misc or all of the above.”
- The Book of Re-Enchantment, chapter two, verse sixty six