I began my tour of the usual places, observing more closely so as not to miss anything, trusting that my memory would withstand the passage of time better than my father's. Returning after years inevitably awakens nostalgia and the silent doubt of whether one made the right decision to leave.

Everyone sees you trying, but few truly understand everything behind it: the effort, the difficult moments, and all that you had to go through to get where you are.

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?”…

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.

It’s something I had never felt before. Something so beautiful, yet at the same time something that hurts so much.

No seas demasiado “sí” para una tormenta, porque no todos son aptos para recibir tus gotas con luz.

No one tells us that one of the worst kinds of death is the death of the worlds we build: the illusions, the stories we took as real, the futures we inhabited without even realizing it.

Your eyes, your laughter, your lips, your expressions, your hands, your ability to make me do whatever you said… I allowed myself to be blinded by beauty.