Uno termina por comprender. Tarde, pero comprende. Uno se piensa así mismo como víctima de circunstancias, del amor y desamor, de la vida, de las decisiones. De los instintos de supervivencia. Y se cuestiona… Hoy pasó algo. Tuve el pasado en mis manos y lo más curioso, es que lo ví claramente. Lo bueno y lo…
Read more
Lord Byron, 25 August, 1819. My dearest Teresa, I have read this book in your garden;–my love, you were absent, or else I could not have read it. It is a favourite book of yours, and the writer was a friend of mine. You will not understand these English words, and others will not understand them,–which…
Read more
As small messages in bottles thrown into the ocean, hoping to come to you as brief signs that I think of you as well, every time you think of me I call upon you also. Every night, though I resist, there is always a thought for you. I always kiss you goodnight and whenever something…
Read more