— Photos I found in the street.
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— Photos I found in the street.
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19 de diciembre, 1:40 a.m.
— Returning home after a grand conversación with Tord, Riccardo, and Hannah. A week to Christmas and we sit outside in comfortable weather, drinking mate and lemon water, discussing STDs and Italian phrases like, “Stop shitting on my penis.” Life is a fucking banquet. Talking also about the life in Argentina. The children of the projects. Always the same doomed questions: Can we change anything? Can things even change? We are born lucky. Yes, we are born lucky. And happiness is not difficult to find. It is not difficult to be happy. Not for me. I sit here, listening to “Ave Maria” and “Death and the Maiden,” writing in jeans and a bra, my puppy Tia Maria exhausted and attempting sleep on the bathroom tile floor. I have nothing to complain about. Am I naïve? One never knows.
recreational liar, wannabe poet, amateur photographer, peripatetic, modest artist, ex-Protestant, part-time alcoholic, word junkie, obsessive compulsive, music addict, masochist, nervous conversationalist, slow reader, harsh critic, pessimistic idealist, clumsy musician, glutton, courteous driver.
impatient, severe, dependable, punctual, flexible, competant, rational, limited, cliched, self-deprecating, over-eager, well-tempered.
listen to the same song for hours on end, shower with the lights off no matter time of day, sleep with my head under the pillow, seldom brush my hair, enjoy an occasional nightmare, force myself to not return emails so quickly, memorize world capitals for sport.
Prague, Budapest, Istanbul.
love: well-crafted commercials, impossibly long walks home at ungodly hours, secret pockets, atlases, classy postcards, clever allusions.
hate: biased newsreporting, rudeness, prepackaged atheism, obnoxious complaints against government, baked potatoes, low-quality duct tape.
never: gone fishing, read an entire Austen novel, lost my keys.