ceased to be when I say I am. Every word I made it submerged in the mud of the past, and memory can only be a battered rag to help clean the artifacts, without thereby resume their bright primary. What if instead of a past event I hold a future? A future that by enrolling in what I say, it loses all virtuality and would catch me in the letters as a prophecy. Write my autobiography from the future and therefore fill me facts indicating that I lived every day have been permeated by something more subdued than the vacuum, by those who own distraimiento smile. Windows closed and shades down will be enough to start, "March 21, 2043. Today my doctor diagnosed dementia begin to sharpen, so I write this, raising the possibility that the cleaning of all my past, and therefore my life, so allow me to reinvent myself and read everything I write, as if glimpsed in the mirror and face the ignorance of which is always updated. It is the chance to live, because forget my former days, to live a single day with the endless options it gives me the absence of any memory. August 31, 2043. This time I presume that is where I write, I do not know what year and ground are screaming that killed Gaitán though that my grandmother told me when I was little, she said she saw flames and Bogotá in the newspapers seemed to act hastily in images of anger and that she saw them but could not read or I thought so because he had dementia. Poor grandma. I also think poor me I do not remember anything, but hey, I can keep inventing and I can say and I can know that I am the same thing as yesterday and perhaps the next morning, but am not going to know. Another day or the same. The dates are over and breath, breath that I used to type, to make notes. There are not many words, forget the previous, previous, Rointe. " Days will not be embedded in anything written. Not even the life itself will be a disappearance, not even be limited in silence.
Aszeta
Aszeta
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