I was thinking I should post something, something of no significance but randomness. I shall have my memories compiled,out of no reason (but possibly boredom), knowing not how. Listening to emo songs is likely to function as a catalyst,adding to the not-so-high temperature of my intertwined thoughts (which after all seems to be of complete blankness). It feels good to have something to be posted, no matter how random it is. And there is this linguistic confusion among Chinese, English, Spanish and French. Yesterday I said to me Spanish seemed harder to learn than French and Senorita almost jumped up from the chair.

Have read some comentarios on books and movies and discovered that I still hate the artificiality of their metaphors. The perfectly idealistic me years ago seems so distant now.[Your attention please: the fire alarm has been sounded and the cause is being investigated.Please remain calm and wait for further instructions.----The haunting repetition, after having disappeared for so long, emerged again.Fortunately it stopped.] My writing has changed so much and has lacked the imaginative freedom.I guess this is what happens when four languages stir and jumble up at the same time: you can seize the essence of none of them but get lost among the different senses brought out, especially when there is such an enormous difference between your native language and the other three. And insufficient reading makes me feel inadequate. Listening to too much music and watching too many movies make me too lazy to form sentences---you get too used to visions and sounds instead of words. [and well, you become more Spanish---excuse me.]

What if one can paint his dreams (well, that makes him another Picasso) or his thoughts (Dali II, then) in the exact form they have been. dissemble and rearrange. Probably they are full of beautiful patterns and rhymes, graphically, musically. Then you'll have all the candydreams, futboldreams, savetheworlddreams exhibiting themselves [ah, reflexive--have I spelt it correctly?--verbs in Spanish are SO(sos) confusing.] in front of you. And you'll see a picture of your carrying your winged heart to Iberica, with crimson, violet, baby blue backgrounds. How amazing.

Oh, the music has stopped.

Why, Román?
I can't recall the two dreams more clearly, even after all these eight messy months. The second one was telling. I screamed if without Roman what am I up here for why on earth did I come to watch the game I came to watch him but no he is not here he is not playing. The presence of hundreds of solid shadows, it doesn't weigh as much as the emptiness from one man's absence. That bitter dream, it was bitterly prophetic.
What if a hero is cornered. What if he is the equivalent of solitude, of, perhaps, aloofness, of not following the trend, of reminiscing the ageing elegance.
Nowhere to find a shelter. Can't return, because they simply can't afford to buy him. Well, how cheap it sounds. Those giants can't afford because his presence means a complete change to the team's core strategy, or even style. You can't expect a well-known well-built team to compromise this way. And for those clubs in his hometown, he is overly costly. No way. He simply can't return.
It was true that for the second half of last season he was totally absent, back in Argentina. But I wasn't uncomfortable with it. What's more soothing than knowing that he leads HIS team to victory?
And now.
I have imagined myself taking a picture with a Roman clod in the red-white stripped jersey. I don't care if he is from the rival team. And well, that's a perfect illusion, a complete imagination. It has come to September and he remains in the monotonous yellowish Villarreal. What can I say now.
Only this.
Buena suerte, querido Roman.

Already three days, to this day.
Three days' mourning shall come to an end. The pain shall be over. I don't suppose one can always consume the shadow from the past, let alone the past means death. He will live an eternity, in the memories of people who genuinely love him. And that's enough, because that's how life goes.
So, before I let go the elegy from within, just let me put down these last words here, for him:
Puerta, amigo, Sevilla está contigo.
Hasta siempre, Antonio Puerta.