#caliope

Fuente Hay momentos en la realidad que superan a cualquier fantasía, que nos dejan los pelos de punta y que incluso nos hacen dudar de si nosotros mismos seremos reales o estaremos sumergidos en algún

Fuente ¿Qué secretos de raso guardaría el teléfono descolgado en tu mano aquella noche de verano, la del 5 de agosto de 1962? ¿Qué imágenes amargas te acompañaron mientras la marihuana y el Nembutal ascendían

Os dejo este enlace a instagram con un pequeño vídeo poético dedicado a mi madre. Espero que os guste.

The house, that house that once a year was flooded with candles, laughter and birthdays, but which, despite everything, was always sinister even in the celebrations. I remember when Marquitos-that was

Llegados a este punto de la narración, a este descenso por la memoria, no puedo dejar de pensar, en aquellas primeras frases de una de las leyendas sorianas de Bécquer que comienza así: “Herido va el ciervo…,

When everything was true; but in reality it had been a while since I had come to the conviction that everything was a lie, although we would have to reach the why, the origin, the cause. It was one thing

Like concentric waves in the waters when a stone is thrown, we descend slowly through memory. Those waters were very cold, a hand was guiding me and when the water came almost to my neck, I started swimming.

On this dark afternoon dotted, however, by the whiteness of the hail, from this north, which had already forgotten the rain and cold by its absence during the past winter, I’ve decided to write seven lines

Recuerdo que trate de escrutar con rapidez el gesto de mis amigos. Tres de ellos: Ana Mari, María José y Genaro se disculparon y se fueron aún con la boca llena de tarta. Los siete restantes entre ellos,