It was an afternoon of the first day, had already reached five thousand feet below the level of the whales. Light does not reach these summits, and it is that same darkness that illuminates the penumbra in its own way. From time to time, when the earth writhes the seabed, it shakes and my hair smears of the sand they collect. Today is a day that does not look like the others and after the passage of a vortex I try to accommodate my messy appearance. While my fingers hold the pen, I begin to think that they are incomplete memories of a day that reach here those who write themselves.
My eardrums stopped working for many years. It seems that the pressure of the sea has crushed all the bad humors that on earth used to have. In each pause I make, I see the schools before me; that makes me think that the bottom of the sea is as populated as the earth. I continue with my writing. Moments later, a drop of rain that has traveled from the surface meets me. I have preferred solitude, extreme darkness, where neither suffering nor pain exist, nor hope. It's me, in the middle of the black immensity, sitting in a chair in front of my desk. In spite of everything I am not so alone, because I am surrounded by a life that although sometimes it can be strange, it is numerous. But I'm still here, hoping that something more interesting than waiting for death happens ...
