Dear friend:
Yesterday I found myself with a terrible news: “There is no future for what is only poetic”, that is the paradigm of the sad transformation of the world; at five past nine I collapsed, and I never learned to be something else, I always postponed my change for future dimensions, for more romantic and simple homosexual men; I lived wishing that the world would change and it turns out that it did to such a degree that it has left me out of it; but you know something: I could never conform, perhaps my only sin has been to demand too much from the partner in turn, always one more poem before bed, listing sunsets and collecting dry leaves from all the trees in the neighborhood.
Now what I am left with is a horrible feeling of fear, it terrifies me to think that man in his tireless search for perfection will build a sky to his needs, that someday that beautiful blue background that now illuminates me, will cease to be so, and in its place one of sheets and gears will be the one that covers us. Surely a gentleman in the alley of the sad night, one of those that abound and until you have one in front of you you will know what I mean, will charge a hundred pesos to let us see through a crack the ruins of our previous sky.
You see? I'm already talking nonsense, don't be so mean and write me more often, in the meantime I leave you hidden in the little holes of all the “e's” the best crop of hugs that this year has given.
He loves you, Jesús Ríos.
Photography by Pierre Wayser