“On” all that, and “below” of all I. You had placed me in a point, somehow, in a privilege seat of honor but determined. That thing of unconditional could have seemed real to you, you could have even believed it in its moment. But the truth is that all the risks that you took were safe risks, in each of the decisions they were –there’s no way of denying it-my knowledge to do, and my capability to do it. And in the end, if the collective memory as individual it does not fail, when the requirements got worse you started over with a clean slateand went away without scandals.
It accentuated me that complicated sadness of the night animals.I was adding names to myforgetfulness and was remaining more or less in an organized manner days and dates in the memory of my calendars of impossible pursuers ;faithful and kind, like a wolf that for lineage never belonged to any circus, I maintained the musculature of my silences training a noble waiting, plethoric of looks of those who might only give faith a pair of libraries and, perhaps, that bar of Belfast, where several times I tried not to write to you the same sonnet on two hundred two different napkins that December without sky.
In thelater that ended up happening you claimed again the trick, again. That you have changed, that I have changed. I let you do it, like one of my first prostitutes of my adolescence – a fat paintbrush, full of stretch marks, to the one I end up paying because I was drunk, and I was not going back, and you have the honor-, I told you yes, and I petty you, and I disgust myself, and we both smile, and screw up a lot of years, and the fault was mine, always mine, because all the man are the same, it’s well known.