En el alba el crítico no se despierta

En el alba el crítico no se despierta, sigue soñando la obra que desearía haber creado. Pero el crítico no es arquitecto. No conlleva la magia de la metamorfosis de su voluntad en cuerpo. No logra ultrapasar la frontera de la creación. Continue reading

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The uncle

It’s genetic. Or I want it to be so. I like to sleep. I like to dream. An uncle of mine used to sleep a lot in the mornings. I remember that. I was about six or less. I used to spend a lot of time at my grandma’s with my young sister. My uncle used to live there. The door of his room was always closed. It wasn’t locked by key. It doesn’t have any key —I think it was lost, or it has never existed, the impossible key—, but just by an ordinary latch. Continue reading