I am CrazyEye. I know that people laugh when they hear my name. But I don’t care, because there is always someone that laughs at any name, at any detail.
CrazyEye spends the nights in an alley where the wind never comes to disturb him, although there are other malaises, like the stabbing memories impossible to eradicate, treacherous and returning with the persistence of stirred-up and poisonous waves; not to talk about the scorn that so many strangers hurl at me and that sometimes I cannot put up with and affect me more than I would like. But I have my dry cardboards that shield me during the cold nights (they exist), and I have two umbrellas that protect me from the rain. No dog, no cat, no person has ever come to pee in my alley, so I sleep sheltered by pleasant smells, although there is not too far away a factory that doesn’t stink but that I think is trying to contaminate me. It is, anyway, a good place, given my current, already long-standing, situation as an abandoned creature, a corner where I can feel safe, alone, and where I could make music with empty glass bottles and conserve tins, if I would feel inclined to do so. Even the location of my alley is advantageous to me, because it’s halfway between my park and the cliff of the sewer pipes; that is, right in the center of my hunting grounds, so I’m a fat spider, greedy in the center of its spiderweb, a bug well positioned to quickly snap the first treasure that might appear.