I would say the pain was gone by day 10.

There was a beautiful poem by Kayo Chingonyi in the New York Magazine this week. In the street, it will come down to this tilt. Of the head acknowledging another. Version of events set in a new-build. Years from now, a mess of a place filled. With books and records, our kids thick as thieves. Redefining all notions of mischief. Perhaps our paths will cross in a city. Of seven hills as the light draws your face.

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Mis amigos invisibles son Nopo y Gonta. Domingo, 19 de julio de 2015. When the child was a child,. Why am I me, and why not you? Why am I here, and why not there? When did time begin, and where does space end? Is life under the sun not just a dream? Is what I see and hear and smell. Not just the reflection of a world before the world? Is there really such a thing as evil, and people. Who really are the Bad Guys? How can it be that the I, who I am,. 191;A quién vi? .