If Manny is an idiot surrounded by a beard , Arwen was surrounded by a beautiful girl in the world. Not as beautiful as can be postulants to inaccessibility, as are pretty freckles framing a smile that says nothing, as implied by these locks picked Breton exposed to the meridians and longitudes foaming salt. We saw a bad end his life with, but she was the star of a protective bunch of virgins Gerba their vodka in spasms of spite. Arwen felt no love, no lava cropping reasonable density, it was therefore not wrong to let ride, as it was fun. She conceded, however the company - its embittered girlfriends - a safe distance with the urgency of misfits. At the confluence of ease and restraint, she stretched out his days in sighing overwhelmed, contemplative inert emotional misery which glued the aspirants to his feet. It was - this is important, take notes - really sad to see these little things entangled in their fantasies muddy when it could fill their incandescent sucking their cock. Arwen knew he had to do with it, and took care to be a normal girl, reader of tabloids, smiling colleague, vegetarian non-proselytizing. This normality became logically suspect and his entourage decided she had, like all the pretty girls, psychological problems (all ugly girls also have psychological problems, but who cares since they are in fact ugly), which is unanimously considered it a pity she is so pretty.
People are definitely too stupid, Arwen turned his affections to his younger brother, a boy whose mediocre nothing to say. She understood the eagerness cardiac What depressives to exist for ever - if only that - a person. A few years later, she met a guy we will call for Pepito kidding. Pepito was a primary form of scum today. A boy who was hanging out with mates and conceive life as a succession of halls of buildings that should be immortalized with his piss. Fate is a joker, loved Pepito. I mean, really love. Up to recreate the feel of the condition, - it pierces me a little ass, but that's - identity. He was, and it's a shame this time, the man who loved the best Arwen. He took photographs. Constantly. Every fucking day he emptied several films, Arwen obliquely, Arwen one arm raised, arms raised Arwen, Arwen Brewer reaching the top of the shelf, Arwen Brewer in the arm, an arm aside Arwen, Arwen entering a filter between his fingers, Arwen depositing the filter, and all these pictures stored in a box labeled "Arwen prepares the coffee." Pepito's little brother accepted as an integral component of his dream life. He showed that one could rise from the piss to hope, hope to rage, rage to bliss. He proved that one could abandon themselves to love. He taught him the happiness of quiet in the footsteps of another, and hand attached to his fingers. He said everything there was to say, how to understand the infinite as a dark puddle drawn contours concrete, sand worms need to hunt by digging below the corners of trains where the controller would not see him ever. The other, of course, said nothing. Pepito got him an internship, then died in his car.
Arwen was sad as she does not believe it would be capable. It was a girl savagely intelligent, a spirit that did not carry that instinct, but instinct is itself modeled on the pulse of reason. That is to say if she was clever, whatever. But you know what pain is? Say it is a veil over the rest. On everything else. There are only pain and ways to remedy it, because, somehow, she eats everything and spits in t'inclut tumor that crushes you - do you think initially - to better expel every body would pretend to exist outside of it (the pain, but take a little whore). And Arwen made a mistake. She thought - I still laugh, but it's not fun for me - it might not die of sadness with his little brother. Exist forever for one person. Arwen.
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