El tiempo se mueve a través de mí como un virus, como un recipiente…

I want you to know: I hold myself together through this nostalgia. Sometimes it feels uncomfortable and I ignore it, like a nightmare I want to forget; other times it becomes a refuge and I fantasize about it.

That first coffee that warmed your hands on a freezing morning in a city that, even before you knew its streets, had already named you one of its own.

It’s hard to say that because of someone you end up hating things, places, or people you don’t even know—but it’s true. 

It feels like an echo in an empty house. Sometimes, in the morning, you forget the wall exists and think about telling them something small, a minor detail of the day, until the weight of emptiness stops your hand.

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

Both you in the center and I in the north are ways of thinking: in my center, you have me feeling different things, while in my north, you nourish me with every syllable.

Minutos antes en mi sueño aparecía Roberto Bolaño… Bolaño se acerca… Bolaño me habla… En el sueño Bolaño me pregunta “¿Qué haces en esta ciudad donde eres pobre y desconocida?”…

I tried to close my jaw, to stop the process, to interrupt that silent mechanism; but something remained open, insistent, beyond my control. And I understood that it was not a falling, but a form of revelation.

How important Sunday cleanings are. From time to time I discard my mental habits, along with what I have to wash.

They walked beneath the street scaffolding like ghosts rehearsing memory—each step a soft percussion against the bones of the city, against the gooseflesh of late Fall.

I’ve written you many others with touches of madness, mixed with sweetness—born from my fascination with Benedetti—paradoxes because of Borges, or pieces that lack a bit of sense in the spirit of Sabines.