What can I use with you?
I give you poor streets, desperate sunsets and the moon in the broken suburbs.
I will give you a sad look at the lonely moon for a long time.
I give you my dead ancestors, and people commemorate their ghosts with marble: my father's father died on the border of Buenos Aires, and two bullets penetrated his chest. He had a beard when he died, and the soldiers wrapped his body in cowhide; My mother's grandfather, who led 300 soldiers in Peru at the age of 24, is now a ghost on horseback.
I give you all the insight I can include in the book, all the masculinity or humor I can have in my life.
I give you the loyalty of someone you never trusted.
I'll give you the core that I'm trying to preserve-the core that doesn't make words and sentences, doesn't trade with dreams, and isn't moved by time, joy and adversity.
I give you the memory of a yellow rose, which you saw one night many years before you were born.
I'll give you my own explanation, your own theory, your own real and amazing news.
I give you my loneliness, my darkness and my inner desire; I tried to impress you with confusion, danger and failure.