Writing is only a guided dream.
It seemed incredible that this day, a day without warnings or omens, might be that of my implacable death.
A writer's work is the product of laziness.
Your unforgivable sins do not allow you to see my splendor.
Let neither tear nor reproach besmirch this declaration of the mastery of God who, with magnificent irony, granted me both the gift of books and the night.
Leaving behind the babble of the plaza, I enter the Library. I feel, almost physically, the gravitation of the books, the enveloping serenity of order, time magically dessicated and preserved.