Charles Bukowski A Veces Estoy Tan Solo Que Tiene Sentido Pdf I Access

The whiskey was gone. The gin was gone. There was half a bottle of cooking sherry under the sink, the kind with the pink label and a price tag that still had a cent sign. He considered it. Then he considered the window. Fourth floor. The alley below was a black trench full of broken glass and the silence of things that had been thrown away.

Just the dark.

I am so alone that the walls have started to listen. They don’t answer, but they don’t leave either. That’s more than most people. The whiskey was gone

He stared at the last line. It was a lie. He couldn’t remember a good day. There were days that were less bad. Days where the landlord forgot to knock. Days where the corner store gave him credit. But a good day? That was a myth for people who believed in God or mutual funds.

“A veces estoy tan solo que tiene sentido,” he said aloud, rolling the Spanish like a loose coin on his tongue. Sometimes I am so lonely it makes sense. He considered it

The cockroach died at 3:17 a.m. It lay on its back near the base of the typewriter, six legs pointed toward the cracked ceiling like a tiny, overturned throne. Henry Chinaski, or whatever was left of him, watched it for a full hour. He didn’t kill it. It just ran out of reasons to keep going.

“See?” he mumbled to the empty room. “Even the pests give up.” The alley below was a black trench full

He looked at the cockroach again. Then he looked at the last line he’d written. He smiled. Not because he was happy. But because the cockroach, at least, had died doing what it loved. Nothing.

That was the loneliness that made sense. Not the dramatic kind. Not the kind with rain and sad violins. The real kind—the kind that felt like a fact. Like gravity. Like the number of teeth you had left. It didn’t hurt anymore. It just was . Like a broken stair you learned to step over.