This text disconnects when I realize that something connects. And I find myself finding myself in authors who are not me.

Esa actitud ya está dentro de mi clasificación de transeúntes: el que considera que la responsabilidad de no chocar es de quien todavía habita el mundo físico, porque él no puede hacerse cargo; está ocupado en otra dimensión.

I thought that maybe I don’t want to get rid of the bag, but of the idea that the things that accompany us for so long can simply be replaced, just like that.

I walk with the feeling of listening to the same thing twice. The street imitates the song, or the song imitates the street. I take off one earbud for a second, just to make sure the city is still there.

In the middle of the avenue, a woman from the street is walking, clearly under the influence of some drug. Her hair is messy, her clothes dirty, her gaze lost. Her features are harsh, she looks angry, walking as if daring life itself: she’s moving against the flow of traffic, and for a moment, it feels like she’s coming straight at me.

Suddenly, every person walking beside me becomes the author of something important. I don’t know exactly what, and I’m not concerned with finding out. Some knowledge is spoiled the moment it is named.