Your feelings for me disappeared so instantly that I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to hold your hand and never let go, which is perhaps why I asked you out for coffee that night, for the last time. 

I failed you unintentionally, with the blindness of someone who fears losing the only thing that gives them meaning. And in that clumsiness, learn to look inward, to find in me the peace I sought in your eyes.

El mar, entonces, para mí existía solo en la imaginación. En casa teníamos un librero negro que apenas se sostenía sobre unas patitas que estaban siempre a punto de vencerse y que debíamos calzar con dobladillos de papel de revista. Le llamábamos “el librerito”. Sobre él, como en muchas casas de México, una concha de…

I reread the message, erase it. I reread the message, erase it.

Soledad, a story that never ends, legs whose history I must cry out. Those six lines that ended your freedom. Your name profaned, your life profaned, the light born from your voice profaned.

He entered the hotel wanting to check in. Without documents, without luggage, without proof.

Once I was a sailor, one of those who tie the knots, intoxicated by the breeze of a tortuous sea and imaginary seagulls.

There’s a story I still don’t dare to write. It’s a time so dark that I had forgotten the feeling of constant loneliness on the road: how the cold seeped into my bones all the way to my heart, chilling desire, life, dreams.

My eyes drift away and my life seems insignificant, tiny. Barely an extract of infinity, a line from a book. Barely a sigh of Odin. Barely, barely, barely.

Hatred is the best impulse I have for writing, not because everything I write when I’m angry is worthwhile, but because hatred seems to fan the flames of my creative process.

This is not a dream. Or maybe it is… It’s the story of a road that knew me before I knew myself and of the moment when time stopped being a line and became an echo.

On the other side of the continent, on the other side of the ocean, on the other side of the world. In the farthest place that exists, there is a country where everything belongs to you.