Charles Bukowski A Veces Estoy Tan Solo Que Tiene Sentido Pdf I May 2026

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.

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. He looked at the cockroach again

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. Not because he was happy

Don’t save me. I’m finally home.

The poem read: