was yesterday morning over a cup where there was coffee, and accompanied him and two friends with whom she chats about the good work of director Clint Eastwood on those years in that remote we had television in our house, about a strange movie whose title no one remembered but that passed in Mongolia and the Amazon jungle and on the African savanna about the final of a World Cup, to what can two boobs that overflow of a newspaper photo on the poetic wisdom in the lyrics of Sabina, the contradictions and controversies of Nobelísimo Vargas Llosa and many more things that can not be written on a public blog. Suddenly I said, almost without thinking:
"If I was able to write a best seller, leave literature.
And friend, circumspect: "That phrase
have to write it down somewhere.
So bring it here, obedient and a bit stunned, so that vent from the remnants of this scrip.
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