Loneliness is a big boat full of crazy where all paddle in reverse, where you stay underwater and turn your back against the wall. These are the stigmas that allows me to ignore the existence of creation, however, persist in it. Returning again to bridges, subways, streets and windows of the metro where I quickly cross the whereabouts of every alley, street or wandering musician. To the wobble of dormancy and cold overwhelming, remind me what is safe to be lost in oblivion and ephemera of the time it slips through our fingers, not even perceive. I survived the night and here at the memory persist inexhaustible cualsea where it comes from the memory. A term - cualsea - taken after a reading of Agamben very seriously indeed. And these nights you push to be part of the breath of that air malicious gradually overcomes you by breaking the streets against the current. I hear a voice that makes me want to open my eyes as if to escape the dream, indomitable fighting against my kidnappers do not let me wake up. When open, an old toothless insult to all humanity, as the hostage no name. Shows an old stick and rush quixotically to the scorn and apathy with magic words: the consciousness of working for nothing without one. After calls for support from site to site, when it comes to my place, I ask him about his problem, he responds that it was so important that I had forgotten, and looking out the window question could take this train to paradise? Thinking and co nTest something, but he made a hand gesture delimiting: the end does not matter if I do not know who I am. I looked out the window and turning the head the old man and was not heard from him ever again.
The necessity of remembrance to the daily, the newspaper be without being not cost absolutely nothing and return again to cualsea needed for forgetfulness. That brings me to remember, off the plane and look for the crowd to my brother, and look after years, the streets of my city. A city full of desires, secrets and forgotten. I entered the house and saw my father sitting at the table, I approached him and hugged him, he turned and said, "Who are you. I'm your daughter (I said). He smiled and shook his head: You're not my daughter, she is in New York. Again, the chain of forgetfulness abducted in time, lost in limbo with no memory. And my father, lost in oblivion as insufferable as herbs walling without escape.
Comes the desire of the night without memories to feel some peace and peaceful sleep to the apocryphal. I walk into my attic and forgetfulness persist in wanting my father to the immutable that the development takes away every day with no backsliding. As one old man who fought against humanity and the minutes could not recall who it was. And I start omens where
is just some of my memories and not hurt the thinking between words full of lies. That's just right now, which fills the entire night and indifference take him to oblivion pleasure of the damned. And as Jose Emilio Pacheco say "do not ask me how time flies" I'll take my memories to throw them out the window for the artificial vanish between the omission and indifference. So one day you can ask and who do you go? No recall not a single lie cualsea, in the name of the father. 
