In Comala, I understood that you shouldn't try to return to the place where you were happy.

When, on a regular flight, I landed in the skies of Madrid, a newlywed was waiting for me who didn't remember me.

And braving the waves, without rudder or helmsman, through my veins flows, light on luggage, on a nutshell, my traveling heart, showing the tattoos of a buccaneering past, of a boarding sailboat, of a woman's garter belt.

And how can I escape when there are no more islands to shipwreck the country where the wise retreat from the grievance of seeking lips that drive one mad, lies that win trials so summary that they debase the glass of the aquariums of the city fish

that lost their gills in a school of trash fish, on a beach without a sea.