The light filtered through the windscreen in radiant shapes.
The sun played with the windows of the fiat, to form silhouettes of shadows inside it. Innovative disproportionate figurines were hung in the upholstery and silver seats.
My hair and the breeze, had consummated a resounding pact of perpetual union, as a result, my face-and from time to time-my neck, were filled with caresses and pleasant tingles from my unruly mane. The wind kissed my face. I turn on a Belmont Switch.
The regional highway of the center is dressed in orange, or in any case, some kind of phosphorescent cuttlefish. 8:46 a.m. It is hot, very hot. I do not know anything about Venezuela, or at least, not about its geographical virtues. Some places of chichiriviche or tucacas, characterized my family vacations in childhood. I remember them from those days of sun and oceans, they fade in my head. After Natalia killed herself, everything became blurry and dizzy.
It is only with certainty that in those places I lived, and that at seven, the ocean for me, had a sugary taste and fluorescent colors. That my mother and Fernando were a joke of failed attempts of parents and that their love, on the contrary, was a loaded rifle.
