He spent a good part of his life, trying to demonstrate everybody how different he was from the rest and, when he finally understood, when assimilated that even by genetic we all are unique and unrepeatable, he found himself facing the distressing panorama that the history of his life was incomparably bored, dull, without any splendor. He had tried to write himself, but all its attempts were not but a game of appearances, of poses without grace, destined to place him like the protagonist of a plot that did not have any other argument that the lack of affection and the consistent need of attention.
For my part, I had rushed to live a sexual messy life, which it was what my intelligence back then allowed me. Sometimes I manage to read a novel, it was something from time to time. I had assumed the absurd as a supreme manager of the planet, and I was not going to go against him, and even less to defend his principles. I was simply trying to step aside without covering anybody’s way and, meanwhile, hooking up with anything I found, and if it was not the best, at least it had a quality minimum and as for quantity it was never missing.
When we got together, for those tricks that life does to itself, and between the two of us we did a table with our own disdains, errors, lacks and fantasies, we begin to assume the construction of a friendship completely out of those that till then we had seen in others. A brotherhood without postures, or dates or commitments of blood, oaths and all that kind of solemn stupidities. We were making company to ourselves; we were doing good to each other, and in that there was something sacred, therefore there was nothing else that to act consequently. For everything else, even art, there was the world, the people.