London Underground.

 "You'll just have to make the best of it down here," he said to Richard, "in the sewers and the magic and the dark." And then he smiled, hugely, whitely: a gleaming grin, monumental in its insincerity. "Well-delightful to see you again. Best of luck. If you can survive for the next day or two," he confided, "you might even make it through a whole month." And with that he turned and strode off through the sewer, after Door and Hunter.
 Richard leaned against a wall and listened to their footsteps, echoing away, and to the rush of the water running past on its way to the pumpink stations of East London, and the sewage works. "Shit," he said. And then, to his surprise, for the first time since his father died, alone in the dark, Richard Mayhew began to cry.

Neverwhere, Neil Gaiman.

I’ve had so many knives stuck into me, when they hand me a flower I can’t quite make out what it is. It takes time.

Charles Bukowski 

The Doctor: Amy, you need to start trusting me. It's never been more important.
Amelia Pond: But you don't always tell me the truth.
The Doctor: If I always told you the truth, I wouldn't need you to trust me.

Moffat exists only to ruin people's lives.

En mi última entrada dije que iba a intentar escribir todos los días para practicar para un final. Sí, bueno, no funcionó.

The Last Morning Train

I need to practice my narrative for a final exam, so I asked the Nerdfighters for some help. They gave me some titles and/or ideas for inspiration and now I want to pick some and write about them. I won't have much time the day of the final so this will be aaaall improvisation. Let's see what I can do. My idea is to write at least two or three per week, I don't know if I'll have the time but I'll try. So this begins with...

"The Last Morning Train"

I was never a fan of the "once upon a time" kind of stories, but this was actually once upon a time. It's one of those stories that you find in small towns, the ones in which you don't know exactly when they took place or who were the real characters involved. The kind of story you can hear from old people talking in the park, or kids telling it to each other after they heard it from another friend or some relatives at home. I should warn you before you keep reading, this story has no ending.
So there was She. We don't know who She is. She was a traveller, never spent more than a week on each town. But, you know, when you hear about someone who travels a lot ou might think of someone.. nostalgic, without real friends or family or roots. She wasn't like that, She was always nice and with a big, radiant smile on her face. They say She never felt homeless because she never had an actual home. Once someone from this town had a small talk with her and asked about that, about her way of living life without settling down, apparently She answerd "you know what they say: home is where the heart is! Well my heart is where the wind takes it, and I don't need anything else." 
Clearly something happened, or this wouldn't be a story worth telling. They say she met someone, or He was someone from her past, they don't know for sure, but there He was, at the train station, smiling straight at her. He had one of those charming smiles that can make you blush. She looked at him and smiled back, and that was it. It was in the air, that something between them that made people think they belonged with each other. They took off on the same train on that autumn morning, and nobody knows what happened. Nobody knows if they talked, if they travelled together, if they never saw each other again. That's what people like about this story, they can speculate, they can invent the ending they want. People love doing that.
Personally, I like to think they ended up together. I have a thing for tragedies, yes, but sometimes a happy ending is just what you need.


--aaaaand I didn't actually like this one but whatever. I'm not inspired, I'm tired. The point is my grammar after all. I just thought it would be nice to write again.