I give you the pain of a man who has been watching the lonely moon for a long time. I give you my ancestors, my dead people, ghosts.
The living people use bronze to commemorate: my father's father was killed at the border of Buenos Aires. Two bullets passed through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped in cowhide by his soldiers; My mother's grandfather-only 24 years old-led 300 people to charge in Peru, and now he is a ghost on a vanished horse. I offer you any insights that my book may contain, any masculinity or humor in my life. I give you the loyalty of someone who has never been loyal. I dedicate my own core that I have preserved to you, a central heart that does not deal with language, dreams, time, joy and adversity. I will give you the memory of a yellow rose at sunset, which was a few years before you were born. I offer you an explanation about yourself, a theory about yourself, and true and surprising news about yourself. I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, my inner hunger; I tried to bribe you with uncertainty, danger and failure.