Sunny day; recover courage, humor, open your arms, detach your chin from the trunk.
Paint the newspaper as a wall; of the same target.
White paint the accelerated surface of a day.
Yesterday too down: dizziness and tedium.
Dizziness, tedium, and headaches; "headaches", which seems to be a name of wicked Greek goddesses.
They hammer slowly on the head as if they don't want to knock it down.
The pure pleasure of continuing to hit.
How many are the Greek goddesses with headaches who knock on the door with insistence, the door of one who has not knocked on them?
Restart the soccer league in Germany.
The first match for months in Europe.
B. Dortmund - Schalke 04.
Result: 4-0. One two three four.
Players raise their arms, but do not get close to each other.
Space, space is needed.
In 2013, the poet Kenneth Goldsmith called for printing the entire Internet.
Printing out Internet, the project.
Transform everything that is immaterial into concrete matter that takes up space.
Another invasion of the territory, I think.
I open my arms. It is the emptiness that allows you to open your arms, that is evident.
Nightmare: the day the Internet demands to take up space and print.
All the air full of information, becoming an insistent, solid and concrete thing.
Let there be no room for humans because the entire Internet was printed.
Joy is now vertical, and not horizontal.
Everyone celebrates in his square, from the bottom up.
Now only the sky or the simple air that is nearby is our teammate.
The party becomes individual, almost selfish.
Not a shy brush of fingers, as in the Sistine Chapel.
Neither brutality nor delicacy.
Air exists between two feasting humans, and that emptiness is to maintain it.
Be happy, please, at least one meter from me.
Group joy is over.
A grocery box cut of simple individual joys has begun.
In soccer, eleven joys added.
At the other parties, we'll see.
The madmen continue in the streets and multiply.
A madman in France near Lille wants to sell a crosswalk.
He does not accept that anyone passes by, because he is the owner.
He made a government and invites the people who circulate on the street to be his ministers.
She chose a friend of mine as Minister of Economy and Pedestrian Crossings.
She accepted and texted me saying she was happy.
On the bench, substitute players two meters apart from each other, pick up balls with face masks.
The ball, disinfected. The same care with which you touch the gold or the dangerous grenade.
For the rest, almost everything the same, unless it is not seen.
It seems a farce, a life parallel to the previous one.
Two parallel lines that may be in a year and a half, who knows.
A family in each house, stories that they hear; nightmare and levitation.
"Woman, what's your name?" "I don't know.
When you were born? Where are you from? -I dont know.
Why did you dig this burrow? -I dont know.
Since when are you hiding? -I dont know.
Why did you bite the middle finger? -I dont know.
Do you know that we are not going to do anything to you? -I dont know.
Who are you for? -I dont know.
We are at war, you have to choose. -I dont know.
Does your village still exist? -I dont know.
Are those your children? —Yes. "1
Today, the sun cleans what it can, and the sun can do a lot, of course, but not everything.
1Translation into Spanish by Jaime Ferreiro Alemparte.