And if life were different to that box of lights and sounds and almost indifferent to me: the family a Saturday of a sticky summer day, if life, my life was another system that they speak and we all so different and so alike, that is what same after all, laughing but the laughter and not those crystalline and yellow and chime sounded as cheerful, life another picture that we wait impatiently while the notary boringly, Mr. Jiménez, otherwise they laughing, chatting so many things and nothing, drinking and unhealthy eating these potatoes, girls playing somewhere in the long floor of the grandmother, so strange this summer my aunt says Rita, the most lively and always carries in his huge bag two or three cigarettes of Mary, red hair and green eyes, says climate change is very sure of herself and normal is 17, Idela, the daughter of Richard and Richard have already drunk two glasses of vodka because my life has always been one of them, my family, this path impenetrable, this dark wood, thick, repulsive and endearing at the same time, impossible at times differentiation in this nest of vipers and echoes silent, my eyes passed on them, strangers because my life is something else, other than Mariana is taking photos for a future so uncertain, or aunt Quimeta following so like Anna Magnani, my life elsewhere, as always I think it was, the years have passed like a breeze, but rather in a streak that sometimes seem unlikely to me, and everyone back here together and separated at a time because life separates and unites me not screaming mentally concentrate on the last page I wrote this morning, a page without meaning because it is difficult to find a pattern to the solitude of my friend Virginia, a lifelong friend since the day he ended up in my hands anxious his diaries and letters, are more real than that, I think.
Toma.
Richard, his kindness and goodness of Richard candor that gives me a Camel, as always this sweet blue eyes, for many years, but not so many after all, on an ocher sand also sang these words, sweet looking blue sea that month of my thirties, I knew that sweet blue and his skin had shaken not know how but I knew and the notary, making sure my sister dancing fingers of a pianist on her brown hair, me said will be a surprise to everyone, but I just listen to my sister especially after she decided one day not to hear me more, is that Virginia, my thesis on Virginia Woolf and the pleasure or misery of loneliness, also that evening Richard had offered me a delicious while bitterly Camel desgarrábamos the world with his injuries and his wonderful, Mr. Jimenez did not matter to me nor the will of uncle Victor, the Venezuelan princess lover, and then what Richard had asked, they answered nothing, only this beach where the light is slowly deepening and becoming lavender in some features of the sky and the sweet blue and my dogs and my cats and Sarah and my turtle and in those years, Virginia in blessed solitude particles and atoms incommensurable and not always told you, your eyes of a warmth and tenderness navy blue quiet space in your eyes I'm looking for this walk in the woods and field and which becomes, is your eyes, in which sediment about Virginia writing diaries and letters, gathered waiting here again but missing so many parents, aunts and uncles, some cousins, here, waiting for Mr. Jiménez come to read us the will of Uncle Victor.
