A romantic realistic Argentinean writer.
“Where the fuck are they?” he grumbled while he opened all the drawers of his living room desk. He would absentmindedly leave his keys on the first place he found and therefore he needed to look for them in odd… Continue Reading
Tragedy rarely comes unannounced but it flows to our heart in small sporadic doses. We always try to arbitrarily attribute the quality of tragic to a single event, such as a Tsunami or a Holocaust, but even these events are… Continue Reading
When this is all over, and your eyes become nondescript blue, and your name something that started with some letter, I’ll still remember windowsill, call me weird. When your face is filled with generic features to make up for time… Continue Reading
You can’t get inspiration from sadness; it’s not possible. Your actual inspiration comes from the hope of joy that this sadness triggers. And joy is easier to achieve when you’re sad than when you’re in a limbo of satisfaction. The… Continue Reading
First came Columbus, asking for Indians, “I don’t have any,” I said, “but would you like some Arawak instead?” and he just left, thanking me for the Indians. Then you came and baptized me with your name: Amerigo, you killed… Continue Reading
You came irreverently, unannounced, asking me who the fuck I am, and I digged it so much that I made you mine stealthily, but simply, as an egg is broken, as the stars shine, though they’ve burned out. You came… Continue Reading
He asked her to come in. She’d walked all the way to his flat under the rain and the wind had broken her umbrella half way through. Her name was Melisa. She’d seen Brian perform an impromptu poem in a… Continue Reading
Emi se estaba preparando para dormir, aunque no tenía sueño. En lo de sus abuelos, la hora de acostarse era las diez de la noche, lo cual contrastaba con la hora de dormir en su casa, alrededor de la medianoche.… Continue Reading
It’s true, I could write anything I want here. I could tell you about short-sighted kids who suddenly discover they have the ability to walk on walls of fly on brooms. But then it would be only fiction. The only… Continue Reading
“Mr., are you not cold?”, said a woman in Polish to Agustin while he stood barefoot in the chilliness of November, outside his hostel. He didn’t understand Polish, but he was too lost in his own thoughts to pay attention… Continue Reading