En lo profundo de un bosque se escucha un
tango siendo silbado. Un hacha, enorme para las manos que la esgrimen, golpea
la base tajeada de un pequeño laurel siguiendo la repetición de las notas más
largas del estribillo. “El laurel caerá a la nochecita”, piensa la cabeza que
sincroniza ambos actos al dejar el hacha cuidadosamente apoyada contra el
tronco.
To young Mark. Always with one hand ocuppied. Children of thirty two try to tell me what is a good cigar and what isn’t. Me, who never learned to smoke, but always smoked; me, who came into the world asking for a light. Me, who when asked by a waitress about the kind of beer I would prefer, sweet, sour, toasted or fruity, always respond: cold. Me, who began going out when I was seven. Me, that have lived four hundred and fifty six weekends without throwing up once. Me, who stole my parent’s condoms right after my last brother was conceived. Me, who came from the uterus dancing and when the nurses left the room, lighted a ciggy.
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