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.

A huge unhappiness has settled in my heart for the past month at night. I had seen it wandering through the bar I frequent, lingering among the people there, asking insistently if anyone had a spare room that another feeling wasn’t already occupying. No one answered, and that made me feel so bad that I approached it.

If I close my eyes, I always think about fantasies. I could move houses once a month. My mom calls me cold, but I would say reversible.

A year from now, its shadow will still accompany you, decorating the permanent stain of a makeshift patch, an addition of topography on the map of your skin. Evidence that, at that moment, you felt everything in living flesh, and now its mark has become part of you.

Suddenly, the air turned crisp, and the memories grew cold. I know it’s time, but no one taught me how to honor my own death.

It was easy to be a passing cloud, giving you shade, taking it away, offering you its outline.

Bite me slowly, hold me tight. Caress me, write on my skin. What is it? What is it that you want?

You were struggling in vain, incredulous being; you were crying like an infant. Father, your irony! I was questioning your philosophical failings, your temperamental deformities. I rose from the mat where I had been lying, remembering the times you had admitted wanting to be dead. You imagined funeral services: the delight of your passing, the collective martyrdom of your nonexistence.

We are the river. The mother of all. Those of us who do not sleep. We flow through all mouths and all bodies. From within, we make the earth live. We make it green, abundant, we make it grow. To the earth and to the body. To the heart and the livers.

The sea, the one that made me cry on winter nights, now mirrored the erotic movement of your hands.

Coincidences exist, and this text is one of them. A few weeks ago, I went to the place I always go to buy CDs, and by a twist of fate, I found Album, the first record by the now-defunct band Girls.

I try to imagine what it must be like. Entering death. What it felt like to loosen oneself from life. I always think from the place of feeling. For a moment I feel humbled by that absence, and suddenly it seems to me that going on would be nothing more than an unending entering into death. Something like dying a hundred times before really dying.