English time for tea is five (ready to go)

He was about to throw himself forward without fear to further chatting about his way of living and blocking and not getting the things he wanted, the things we want is what we don't have, he was convinced. It was time to integrate his schizoid passive ways of not succeeding in one single name capable of inflicting respect and fear on others. He, the new oneself, was the one chosen to carry this young author to some international or national or, ate least, some recognition, some way of it. Before the midlife crisis coming, before knowing for sure that he has reached that point of feeling getting older and stupider  he was going backwards, detaching to the dreams that he was losing daily due to the bad sleeping habits, a sort of commitment to that kind of life that once he pursued so intensively.

--'You know what his name is', he stop and said with a grimace:
--'Good Old Arnulfitano'

He woke up in the morning and saw that the opportunities were there, closed to him, the doors remained unknocked. So what was the next logic step. It was so logic that knocking doors is what any young fellow with the need of establishing for real and live of the art of communicating in its various multiform new '.0' ways.

--'That's all, Arnulfitano you are old news now, nice try.' -- He repeated to himself.

He tried in not doing that logic step of asking desperately for help and work, to achieve at least the pride of being the one fucking him up. Better that than the system, he was prone to think. But soon he would realize that he was wrong. The worst enemy is inside, that is a true that almost no man arrives with enough time ti present the kind of battle that dealing with a big sense of oneselfiness...

The result was only selflessness, conterminous selflessness. Bounded loneliness. 

Arnulfitano wrote that day: "All that I can do is accept that hings are not that bad, that depends only on me and the fact of getting me somewhere, of making her happy with me changing, of making us happy, without me."

I decided it was time to talk to the eyes, closer, with a firm grasp of all that could bare be happening at the same time, with this recovered ambitious personality that as a child I can only remember, this times claim for getting involve and cooperate. Never thought that the individualist hippy was the worst way of helping this society to regain some sort of congruence or structure.

It was time to firmly get a grip and stop the unprofessional whining, Arnulfitano was ready to take a bigger heap, to start to whine professionally was really the only goal he has stetted when coming to Barcelona, this city taht was deteriorating in a right-wing liberal fashion and that was so oppressing to the artists and liberal professionals, he still love his little imperfect, unfulfilled life in Barcelona.

He was planning to move back to Mexico, the old "crea fama y échate a dormir" and the way society was so superficial and in need of young talent ready to sell to the best buyer.

He was planning to show the entire world how much he was letting all the ridiculousness inflicted by things just slide as if we were talking of a new man made of Teflon.

Arnulfitano saw himself only as Teflon ready to make worldwide ridiculous things to be able to move forward and be noted in a circus ruled by clowns, which is really hard to accomplish.

He had a midlife crisis since he was a child.
He was a life crisis with deep scary eyes.
Arnulfitano was a long-term result of crisis, perhaps.

He was about to start crying out loud that he was special and that the time for his crisis to be over was just now, and that he had real power to do so, but his powers were more neat when he was away from you, your society, your medias, your networks, your womanly reproaches.

While reading Freedom by Franzen he realized that even today it wasn't necessary to be really good to arrive far in the publishing world. There is some weird component that decides weather you will famine and starve or over-explode with recognition and comments... No one knows why. No one knows if we are living a communication revolution or crisis, a mix, a revolutionary crisis, perhaps.

Franzen wasn't that good, or I have become an ambitious underachiever, who knows. The thing is that his style was fresh, but failed in opening some hidden doors in the actual creation, he was lucky and published. He had the attention and was a trend himself. He never tried to bite the hand of the system that needed him to sell as a really untasted progressive literature that was annoying at some points.