Status Updates From Montano's Malady

The beer must have gone straight to his head, because he suddenly asked me what I was drawing the map of Montano's malady for and why I kept hiding it and didn't show it to Rosa and why I pretended in front of her by making her believe I was enjoying a peaceful, curative rest when in fact I spent the day believing I was the Don Quixote of the Azores, I was more literature-sick than ever and, though I did not realize

In the afternoon of the first day of the century, I abandoned the Brighton's Victorian terrace, I lef Margot and Tongoy getting drunk, and went for a walk on my own in the streets of Valparaiso. Although I struggled against any melancholic thought, it was impossible for me, in the air of the city, in each particle of its air, not to breathe the existence of fatality, terror, mortality.

It's raining outside, the rain is falling on Nantes and this hom room is really very comfortable. But let's get one thing straigh I did not kill Montano's mother. Let there be no doubt. The idea that I murdered her is the classic literary construction someone suffering from my son's illness. It's raining on Nanter and this reminds me of the Barbara song, where it also rained on the streets of this city.

el mal de montano me lo meto por el ano