The dead body

He laid back on his bed and left his head hanging off the edge; making the world upside down. He looked up (or was it down?) and to his surprise, he saw a dead body hanging outside his window, one floor up. The body moved harmoniously with the wind, and oddly enough, at the same rhythm as the first few notes of Hotel California being played on a piano over and over again by his neighbour. 

The body looked young, a man, roughly thirty, clean and well dressed. He wondered what would drive a man that looked this good to end his own life in such a crude way.

"Had it even been suicide?" he thought to himself."Let us consider the possibilities."

And what interesting possibilities had gone through his mind; homicide was, of course, the first. He probably had problems with a drug dealer who had come to settle down a debt. Or perhaps it had been an involuntary homicide; a fight that went wrong. A crime of passion should never be out of mind, he was probably cheating and was cut in the act. Later to be thrown out the window.

"What is his name?" he thought to himself." He looks like a Carlos."

The Market

It had been a couple of months now since insomnia had taken over his life (again), and as usual he hopelessly spent the first week rolling around the bed in hopes of defeating insomnia and catching some rest. It didn't work.

One hot humid night while he was lost in his thoughts and the cigarette smoke, he saw some bright lights across the river lighting up in sequence from left to right, turning that gloomy building into a bright spot. 

"What the fuck could that be?" he thought to himself. 

He lived in a very quiet neighbourhood, everything was closed after ten and by midnight you would never see a soul outside. It was now 2:30 in the morning and he felt intrigued, what could that be? This thought was quickly lost while his mind drifted away following the spirals of smoke emerging from his cigarette. He stayed like this until the sun started to rise, the warmth on his face brought him back from this trance. It was then when he felt the strike of hunger; he walked to the fridge only to find it empty.

Several nights he spent in the same manner, same ritual, same thoughts. On the seventh night the lights turned right on schedule and a weird red light shone in the very center, it seemed to be directed at him.

"Weird," he thought to himself while sipping the last of his green tea.
"I should get another one"

He took his orange bicycle down the elevator, briefly glancing at his reflection in the elevator mirror.

"I should get some sleep," he thought to himself when noticing the dark eye-bags that probably had been on his face for weeks.