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low Atocha I

That's it. To paraphrase

Sabina, but in reverse, I come to say that I left Madrid. Neither Tirso de Molina, neither Sun nor Gran Via and Tribunal.

That surely do with 20 years late. Has been too much time I have content, against nature, the Nomad blood in the veins carry Fidelio. I always wanted to go to LA and has not made me have to cross the sea.

That I will not say that these 20 years have been lost, for 20 years if that much. And I write with an eye serene, no fever. To summarize

triumphs and laughter. Eyes in which I will never look at me. True moments of happiness, immense situations stolen from eternity. Angel skin and sand. Horrors and errors (both with capital letters). Anxieties, inconsistencies, and disorientation. Also perseverance, steadfastness, boredom, creation. And almost all the mundane and banal, and safe. And something wicked. And those things which emerge from the unspeakable depths of the soul, as well

What if only because these two decades have given me to Nacho and Lucy return to live them. In a sustainable manner. A sort of Sisyphus all a hundred, but tangible.

That every moment of these 240 months have been unique, unrepeatable, great. And my shit, not only because they make my existence, but because it was I whom he has had to live them. And sometimes generate. And sometimes recreate them. Mine, mine, mine.

That would not change for all the gold in the world not one of these evenings as much as 7300 there are some I have forgotten, and some more I would like to forget.

That I never break the umbilical cord, but I can scream "you are given Magerit" And yet I look at the news and call my people. "

That today do not talk about my new latitudes. Neither of my new beats. How long will

.

I see you on Friday. But I no longer low in Atocha.

Bye for now ....