To Phie I was never meant to be a writer. I was meant to be born in the darkest part of the Middle Ages, from a little village nested on some old-as-hell floppy mountain, summoned to fight the wars of the bourgeoisie. Tied by an “on the bread-line” salary, a shovel, a hoe (or two) and a tirelessly working farmer girl named something stupendously common like: Josephine. Pregnant with a child I would never meet when it was my time to go die for the opulent dreams of some blonde inbreeds. Short of sight, so no archery, I would’ve been sensible enough to die a quick death on some forgettable frontline surrounded by some close last-night-earnings-thrown-to-the-wind “comradees”, and not from cholera or syphilis, with enough acquaintances, to carry the news back home, having some chubby baby called (as shamelessly as I was) something or other: Cristianson . --- A Fi No se suponía que fuera escritor. Debí haber nacido en la parte más oscura de la Edad Media, en un ...