When you write, you belong nowhere, you believe in nothing. You nail the planks of your coffin. Destruction is the only sustainable career. The rest is fertilizer. Young artists and intellectuals thrive. The smell of detergent enters through the window, agents clean their weapons, mothers babysit their children. The opening of the flowers. In the calcified cemetery of Laras, the winds from the Atlantic rage with the nails and forceps of the omens that have passed in vain.

The only truth is destruction, and the end is the only pity for it.